C'est La Vie
by cinnamon toast
Summary: Shannon Kilbourne has been seeking validation her entire life. In the heart of Paris, France, she learns how to start over.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: **I don't own any of these characters or locations, although I suppose I do own Université Rousseau, which is fictional.

**C'EST LA VIE**  
_Chapter 1_

_Amherst  
Barnard_  
_Boston University  
Dartmouth  
Northwestern  
Tufts  
University of Chicago  
Yale._

I had saved the best for last, my pen lingering over the page as I looped the _l _and drew out the final upward curve of the _e_. My first-grade teacher, Ms. Kittleson, used to praise me on my penmanship. I try not to scribble, even during lectures where the teacher talks at breakneck speeds. I write very neatly, very deliberately. I love the sight of a well-organized set of notes, all in order with headlines and sub-headlines and bullet points and lists.

Anna would think I'm crazy. I'm not. I just take pride in my work.

Carefully, I drew a tiny star next to Yale, marking it on paper as my number-one choice. Marking it as my top choice in my mind wasn't necessary – that had been sealed for me since my sixteenth birthday.

Anna, Greer, and everyone else I knew had all asked for cars on their sixteenth birthday. I had asked for a trip through the US, for the opportunity to tour all the major colleges and begin my list from there.

Satisfied, I wrote "Final College List (August 22)" at the top of the page, then tore it out of my notebook and slid it into a red folder labeled COLLEGE. Pushing back my chair, I pulled out my lower desk drawer that opened up into a filing cabinet. Once I returned the red folder back to its proper place, I pulled out a different folder with a vivid blue cover and three black words emblazoned across the top that sent a tingle through my skin.

_Le Huit._

In the midst of all the madness of junior year, I had carved out special time to work on my application and portfolio for _Le Huit_ (translated into English as _The Eight_). _Le Huit _was an international study-abroad program for high school seniors, sponsored by Université Rousseau. Eight students selected from eight different countries spent their last year of high school at the university, studying their area of interest in the heart of the most beautiful city in the world. _Paris_, _France_. Université Rousseau received hundreds of applications each year; the competition, I knew, was cutthroat.

But I had been determined, and as I had slipped the final application package into the mail, my hands hadn't trembled a bit.

I had had a chance to visit Paris once before, which I'd deliberately sabotaged in an extremely uncharacteristic fit of childishness. I wasn't about to pass this opportunity up.

May had arrived, bringing with it flowers, sunshine, and a fat package from Université Rousseau in the mail one Monday morning. As thrilled as I had been to see the words _Congratulations, Miss Kilbourne!_ staring up at me in the opening letter, I have to admit – I hadn't been terribly surprised. It had felt like a congratulations well-earned, a validation.

I opened the folder in front of me now, feeling a shiver of anticipation down my spine. I was usually careful about giving myself over to too much emotion, but not now: I let the excitement crash over me in waves. In two days' time, I would be on a plane to Paris.

Brochures, lists, and other various papers lay strewn before me. I was just about to dive in when the phone rang, startling me.

I picked up the phone. "Hello?"

"Shannon?"

"Anna!" I gripped the phone tighter, smiling now. "Hi. How are you?"

"Good. Great. Hey, I was wondering, do you want to come over right now? Mom's not home so Abby and I ordered pizza, but now we're swimming in it. You could stay a little afterwards too."

I hesitated, my eyes lingering on the pile of _Le Huit _paraphernalia before me. But only for a moment. Anna is my best friend. "Sure," I said. "Give me some time to get ready. I'll be over in ten."

"Great," Anna said. She sounded pleased, which pleased me in turn. "See you soon."

I hung up, pleasantly surprised. Anna and I are close, but we do lead awfully separate lives. I hadn't seen her since the welcome-back lunch we'd had together after she returned from an orchestra summer field trip. She and a few other friends were driving me to the airport when I left, but I hadn't expected to see her before then.

Before leaving, I paused for a moment before my full-length mirror and gave myself a cursory once-over (a habit I'd inadvertently picked up from my mother). I was still dressed from attending an academic achievement banquet earlier in the day – a black A-line skirt and a burgundy camisole underneath a light, summery white cardigan. Anna had made fun of me during our lunch for showing up fresh from a Barnard information session, clad in a pencil skirt and heels. Leaving the top half of my outfit intact, I swapped out the skirt in favor of a pair of dark-wash jeans.

My ears caught the sound of my bedroom clicking open behind me, and I whirled around to see Maria's bright eyes staring up at me. "Where are you going?" she asked, apparently by way of greeting.

I reached for a tube of mascara. "Anna's," I answered, unscrewing the cap and leaning in closer to the mirror to touch up my face. "I might be gone a little late. There are leftovers from last night in the fridge, okay?"

She shrugged. "I guess. Mom just got home. She says that today in culinary class they did custard tarts, and she' s going to make them for us tonight." Maria smiled then, a full, true, twelve-year-old smile.

I didn't even make an attempt at covering up my surprise, a possibly foolishly undiplomatic move. "Mom's home? Already? It's only six o' clock."

My mother spends a lot of time taking classes at either the community center or the local university. Although she no longer works, she doesn't spend her free time at home (she says God did not create her to be a housewife. This I agree with). Often she's at classes or at her various friends' houses. I think they've all joined a book club together. On a typical night, I won't expect her or my father home until well after nine.

I set the tube back down and examined my handiwork in the mirror, wondering if my mascara was too clumpy. Leaning in closer, I flicked away excess mascara. My eyes traveled down to run critically over my clothing; I knew my mother didn't approve of jeans. I threw a longing look at the black skirt I had tossed aside. Should I change, just quickly?

"Are you going to come downstairs? She asked where you were."

Maria's inquisitive voice broke into my thoughts. I shook myself out of my reverie and into action, grabbing my keys and heading for the door. "Come on," I said, taking hold of Maria's shoulders and steering her briskly out into the hallway. "Let me go say hi to Mom. And remind her that even if they're homemade, custard tarts are dessert and you and Tiffany should _not _be eating them for dinner."

Maria turned back to look at me, scrunching up her face in a grin that reflected something that looked rather like pride. "She bought Chinese food for us too."

Homemade dessert and a store-bought meal. It was an odd combination.

My mother's voice met my ears as soon as Maria and I hit the bottom of the stairs. "Shannon! Where is my darling first-born? I sent Maria up to fetch her but they must just have vaporized, the both of them. Tiffany, would you mind…"

I released my hold on Maria as we stepped into the kitchen, at which point my mother turned around mid-spiel and broke into a smile. "Oh, darling, there you are. And you, too, Maria. Now, girls, egg drop soup? I bought three different types of chicken, I wasn't sure what you would all agree to…by the way, Shannon, darling, what on earth are you doing in denim? Didn't you have a banquet today?"

My mother is a definite "darling" person. Greer's mother is, too. Anna's mother isn't the pet name type at all, which I somewhat appreciate.

"I just changed, Mom," I said, stepping up to the counter. I started helping her unpack the food, continuing to talk as I worked. "Actually, I'm not staying," I added. "Anna invited me over for pizza with her and Abby, so she's expecting me pretty soon."

"Oh, the Stevenson girl?" She removed a few cartons from the bag and opened one of them. The scent of lemon chicken wafted through the kitchen. "Oh, all right, I suppose we'll save a few custard tarts for you, then. Don't you spend quite a lot of time with Anna, though, darling?"

"Well, we've both been busy throughout the summer. She is driving me to the airport in the morning on Monday, though, for," I paused, "Paris."

She looked at me. I smiled.

A moment passed, and she smiled too.

"Right, right, Paris. _Par-ee_," she said. "Well, darling, I'm glad you finally got the chance. I'll see you tomorrow night at dinner before you leave. Send my love to Anna and her mother."

I smoothed down an imaginary wrinkle in the fabric of my jeans. "Bye, Mom," I said, and kissed her briefly on the cheek as I left.

The walk to Anna's house was short. We were in the middle of summer, meaning that tonight, like all other nights lately, was comfortably warm. As I rang the Stevensons' doorbell and waited, I pushed up the sleeves of my white cotton sweater, vaguely wondering exactly how long I would be required to stay in order to be polite. It wasn't that I didn't want to see Anna, of course not – my mother being home so early in the evening was just such a rare occurrence that I felt as though I should savor it. In particular, her sudden domestic urge to bake pastry delights for her daughters was so out-of-the-ordinary that I felt like I should see it in person, if only out of respect for posterity. It wasn't an event that was likely to happen again anytime soon.

The door flung open and Anna's face, strangely flushed with excitement, greeted me with an ear-to-ear smile. "Shannon! Hi! Come on in." She ushered me inside, closing the door behind me.

I couldn't help but laugh at her odd enthusiasm. "Hi, Anna. Why so excited?"

"Just…." She waved her hands in the air dismissively. "Really good pizza." Then she laughed, too, and took me by the hand as she pulled me along into the Stevensons' living room. "Come on."

I followed her lead, slightly bemused. "Anna, are you – "

"_BON VOYAGE_!"

An array of happy faces stared out at me from beneath a huge, hand-painted banner stretched out wall-to-wall across the living room. _AU REVOIR, SHANNON_, the words read.

I gasped and spun around to look at Anna, who was beaming. "You…"

Greer emerged from the small throng, holding a flute of sparkling apple cider in one hand and reaching her other arm out to me, evidently for a hug. I hugged her back. "Oh, Shannon, you couldn't think we'd let you abandon us all for _la ville-lumière_ without a real goodbye to remind you of all the perks of small-town life." She rolled her eyes dramatically and threw her head so that waves of hair cascaded down her back. "Paris! A whole year! Oh, I could just kill you."

I've known Greer for years, and I know she's longing to break free of Stoneybrook. The only comfort our town holds for her is its close proximity to New York City. I know how she feels sometimes.

Laughing, I kissed her on the cheek, because that's Greer's sort of thing, and hugged her again. "And you've all been planning this? For me? I can't believe you, this is wonderful!"

"Oh, yes," said Greer. "It was Anna's idea. I just helped up her round up _these _unsavory characters," she waved a hand at the group of people assembled in the room, "and threatened them on pain of death into showing up here at five forty-five sharp."

Anna and Greer aren't exactly that close, as Anna goes to Stoneybrook High and Greer and I have been at SDS all our lives. They are friends, though. My schedule is so cluttered with school and extracurriculars that I don't have a great deal of time to spend with my few really close friends. I've ended up forcing them to hang out with me at the same time, and so they've gotten to know each other over the years. I wouldn't call them _best _friends (I think Anna finds Greer a bit frivolous, and Greer finds Anna a bit dull), but they do get along, at least.

I turned again to Anna and hugged her, too. "Thank you!"

Polly, an old friend whom I slightly drifted apart from in the craziness of junior year, stepped forward. "We're going to miss you, Shannon," she said.

"Oh…I'll miss you, too!" The words came out of my mouth unbidden. I said them because they were expected, but the truth was, I doubted I would miss much about Stoneybrook at all, aside from Anna and Greer. And Tiffany and Maria, of course. I had been looking forward to college since ninth grade; _Le Huit _offered the exact same kind of escape. I was eager to get away from nearly everything in Stoneybrook, everything right down to the kneesocks of our uniforms.

The party passed in a blur of laughter and music. At around nine, the chorus of goodbyes began as people started filing politely out, no doubt on their way to some party with more excitement (i.e. alcohol). I had long made it clear that I strongly disapproved of junk like that, and besides, Anna would have never allowed it in her mother's house as it was.

Eventually, Greer, Anna and I were all that remained. Greer was splayed across the living couch as though she owned it, one hand pressed against her forehead like a melodramatic B-movie murder victim.

As the last guest left (Sophie, a girl I knew from French Club), she immediately rose and leaned toward me in a confidential manner. "Don't worry, Shannon," she said comfortingly. "This isn't _all _we've planned for your great farewell."

"It was fabulous!" I protested. It was true, it had been fun – and besides, I could practically feel Anna's forehead crinkling at that. "Honestly, it was so thoughtful of you two. I had a really good time."

Greer waved my words away and continued almost as though I hadn't spoken. "We're going to New York City tomorrow. All day," she announced. "It's your last full day with us! The interior of Anna's living room might not make you very sad to leave Stoneybrook, but the Big Apple will remind you of everything that's good and great and true about the US of A."

I smiled, but in my mind I was doing a rapid run-through of anything I might have scheduled for tomorrow. It _was _summer, but that didn't mean I still didn't have commitments. And precisely because it was summer, I was away from my usual school year routine and not quite on top of all the events on my calendar as I typically was.

"And if you're wondering if you have any Future Ivy League Alumni meetings to attend or anything, I checked your datebook," Greer added triumphantly, reading my mind as she often did. "You're free. And you're coming!"

I held up one finger. "One thing. I forgot to tell you, but I'm having dinner with my family tomorrow in some fancy Stamford restaurant. It's a farewell thing for me. Eight o' clock."

I hadn't exactly forgotten to tell them. Honestly, a formal family dinner like the one planned for tomorrow was so rare that I hadn't wanted to make too much of a big deal out of it – for fear of jinxing it, and for fear of raising my hopes too high.

"Eight o' clock?" repeated Greer. "Well, I suppose that's all right. The two of us can take the train back at six. You'll be home safe and sound. Well, not necessarily sound." She winked, the kind of move that only Greer could pull off.

At the words "the two of us," I looked at Anna. "Aren't you coming?"

"No," she said, sounding truly regretful. "I'm sorry, Shan. I have an orchestra thing in the middle of the afternoon, so I can't make it. You guys have fun, though."

"That's too bad." I gave her another brief hug, probably the hundredth one of the night. "Thanks for having this party for me. It was wonderful."

She smiled. "No problem. I'll see you Monday, okay?"

"Definitely." Greer and I both got to our feet and struggled to the door. Outside on the front doorstep, Greer kissed me airily on the cheek, told me that she would call me early in the morning, and floated away to her car. I walked home, wondering what I would find when I got there.

The driveway was empty as I let myself into the house. I can't say that I was exactly surprised. As I walked inside, I found Tiffany and Maria in the family room, watching some Lifetime movie on TV.

"Let me guess. She has a brain tumor, and her husband is leaving her."

Two heads turned toward me: Tiffany's golden blonde head, that matched Mom's and my own, and Maria's head of wiry auburn curls. "You've been gone awhile," Tiffany commented.

"The pizza dinner turned into a surprise farewell party," I said, leaning against the doorway. "Where's Mom?"

Tiffany shrugged. "She went to the Rossums' house. She said to tell you she left some dessert for you when you got back."

In the kitchen, I found a plate bearing three homemade custard tarts and a handwritten note. _Shannon_, it read. _I'll see you tomorrow at dinner, darling. Viva la Paris! Love, your mother._

I picked up a tart and bit into it. It tasted sweet.


	2. Chapter 2

_Chapter 2_

My wardrobe is an abyss. It's certainly nowhere near the size of some of my classmates' at Stoneybrook Day, and definitely not the entire second mansion that Greer's is, but my estimate is that a small child could still live inside quite comfortably. Some of it is clothes my mother bought in attempts to make me care more about fashion, back when she did things like that. Most of it is clothes I bought for various events that stack up over the years, where jeans and a t-shirt aren't acceptable for entry. I don't mind. I think it's important to maintain a professional vibe in every aspect, including appearance.

I pulled out a pale coral pink dress, inspected it, and threw it aside. It fell across my bed, joining the pile of other rejected pieces: a pair of dark grey slacks, a brown scoop-necked dress, and countless skirts and blouses.

My wardrobe is an abyss. But right now, it was yielding nothing.

It didn't help that a good portion of it was packed away into boxes and suitcases, ready to be shipped off to Paris along with myself tomorrow morning. I sorted though the hangers, my impatience mounting.

"Oh my God, what happened in here?"

I whirled around to find Tiffany standing in the open doorway, her eyes slightly wide. She had an empty pint of Ben & Jerry's in one hand and a spoon in the other; it was just like her to be eating ice cream early in the morning. I guessed that she had been on her way downstairs to clear it away and stopped at the sight of the monstrous piling of clothing on my bed.

I couldn't blame her for being surprised. My bedroom is _always _in order. It may get slightly cluttered at times during the school year when I'm too busy to properly clean it, but it never reaches the levels of chaos that Tiffany's does. A disorganized room is the sign of a disorganized mind.

"I'm trying to decide to wear," I explained, then laughed. As though it wasn't obvious.

"Clearly," said Tiffany, echoing my thoughts. Apparently she took my reply as an invitation for entry, because she bounded inside and threw herself onto the bed. I was mildly impressed that she had even found room to sit.

She put her spoon inside the empty ice cream carton and placed it on my desk. "So," she said, evidently gearing herself up for a nice gossipy talk. "What are you getting so dressed up for? Do you have a _date_?" Her eyes immediately brightened at the prospect.

Normally I wouldn't enjoy having Tiffany in my room while I was in such a state, but at this point I was ready to take anyone's advice. "No, I don't have a date," I said, patiently. "Don't be ridiculous, why would I go out with someone right before I leave for Paris? No, I'm choosing something to wear for dinner tonight."

I've never obsessed over an outfit so much before. But I so rarely have any chance to spend time with my parents. We never have family dinners like this. And I want it to go perfectly.

On hearing my response, Tiffany made a face. "And you're spending this much time over it? Why?"

I pulled from its hanger a deep crimson dress with an empire waist and looked it over critically. Maybe. "Because it's important," I said calmly, folding the dress neatly over the back of my desk chair. A simple black dress sat folded on the seat of the chair as the only other piece that had passed my inspection. "It's the last time I'll see my family for a year! Of course it's important. Now, what do you think?" I held up the two dresses for Tiffany's assessment.

"The red one," she said promptly. "But I meant, why bother?"

I put both dresses down. "What do you mean?"

"Why bother?" Tiffany began to shift through the pile of clothes that I had tossed aside. "You know Dad's going to cancel. Either that or he'll be reading briefs all night. And Mom…well, who knows." She held up the coral dress, wrinkling her nose. "Shannon, this is so Little Bo Peep. Why do you even own this?"

"He isn't going to cancel!" I said sharply, and instantly regretted it. My voice sounded defensive even to my own ears. I sounded childish and not at all the poised, Paris-bound scholar that I was.

I calmed myself, and started again. "I arranged this with Mom and Dad weeks ago, remember? They both marked it in their agendas. Don't worry." I took the coral dress from her and turned to hang it back up neatly. "And this was for a breast cancer awareness fundraiser. The one the Carsons held last spring."

"Hm," said Tiffany, unfazed. "You should put in the next batch of clothes you send to Goodwill."

"I'll keep that in mind." I reached for the scoop-necked dress and turned to hang that up as well. "Thanks for helping me choose. Do you mind leaving the room? I have to get ready for New York."

She shrugged and left the room with her spoon and her ice cream, leaving behind the mess of clothing on the bed. I put everything away myself until my bedroom is as before, then checked my watch. 8:30 AM. I was supposed to meet Greer at the Stoneybrook train station at eight-fifty sharp to catch the nine o' clock train.

I slipped into a summery white skirt and a sleeveless teal shirt, hoping that would help me survive the sticky humidity of New York summer. Before I left, I carefully laid the crimson dress across my bed. I would have just enough time after I returned from New York to shower and change.

"I'm heading out!" I called out to whoever might be listening as I descended the stairs. "See you later tonight!"

"Bye!" shouted back Maria's voice from somewhere in the house. I guessed she was still upstairs in her room. Tiffany didn't respond; I had no idea where she was.

To my surprise, Greer was already standing outside the train station waiting for me when I pulled up at 8:49 on the dot. She stood there, haughty as she always was, with her hair blowing in the light breeze as I parked and hurried over to her. I had to admit that I was impressed – Greer usually enjoys being fashionably late. Her flair for the dramatic tends to interfere with her ability to be punctual.

"Hi!" I said, swinging my purse over one shoulder. "Congratulations, Greer. I didn't know the laws of physics permitted you to wake up before ten on weekends."

"Shannon!" she said as though I had said something shocking. "It's the last time I'll see you for a _year_! Did you think I'd be late for this?"

I couldn't help but smile. "Never. Absolutely not."

"Good. Anyway, our housekeeper came in early and started vacuuming in the hallway. I've been awake for _hours_," she said with a sniff. I laughed.

Greer looped her arm through mine and began steering me into the station, keeping up a steady stream of chatter all the while. "I haven't been into the city for so long! I've planned such a fabulous day for us, Shannon. We have lunch reservations at Cilantro, it's this wonderful Mexican restaurant on the Upper East Side. I thought I was going to _faint _right in front of Kevin when we tried the spicy habanero wings, but don't worry, there are things on the menu that don't make your mouth positively catch on fire…"

She went right on talking as we boarded the train and found seats in a small compartment near the end of the train. Greer occasionally wears on some people, but not me – we've been friends for years, and I love her.

"Oh, don't forget," I broke in as she started rattling on about evening plans. "We have to take the train back at six, okay? My family's having dinner. I made reservations especially." I'm not exactly sure why I bothered adding that last part; as a reassurance, perhaps. A reassurance that the dinner would happen, and go by without a hitch.

No, that was silly.

"Yes, Shannon, I'm aware," Greer said with a roll of her eyes. "You've brought it up _several _times. Now, as far as shopping goes, how much room do you think you have left to squeeze into your suitcase? Because I think…"

Eventually, our train came to a screeching halt at the Grand Central Station. Greer and I fought our way first off the train, then out of the station, through a herd of disgruntled-looking commuters, tourists, and city denizens. We passed a teenage girl who looked around our age sitting against a wall, playing an acoustic guitar and singing a lovely rendition of Angel of the Morning. We stopped to listen, although I got the distinct impression that Greer was dying to join in and upstage her. When at one point she began to open her mouth slightly, I quickly hurried her away, leaving a dollar bill for the girl.

Once outside, Greer threw back her head and inhaled the sticky New York air. "_These little-town blues…_" she sang, in her rich, future-Broadway-star voice.

I groaned, and then started laughing as she shoved me soundly in the ribs.

"So," Greer said, clasping her hands together. "We're two wealthy, beautiful girls released into the wilderness of the Big Apple. The whole city, Shannon, is our oyster."

We shopped. We talked. We ate. We laughed. Greer lost her heart to a pair of sleek, black leather boots on the fourth floor of Saks Fifth Avenue and immediately charged it on her credit card, much to what I imagined would be her father's dismay when the bill arrived. I remained much more sensible – at least, until we stepped inside Bloomingdale's.

Mrs. Carson was holding a charity benefit next week, and she had sent Greer out on a mission to find the perfect dress to embody the "kind, generous spirit" of the hostess's daughter. "Can you believe it?" she said with her very Greer sort of laugh. It reminded me of champagne being poured into a flute. "Honestly, I don't even remember what charity the benefit is _for_. Anyway, let's get on with it, any old rag will do, we don't want to miss our lunch reservations…"

I helped her scour the dress department of Bloomingdale's, although what separated a generous, kind-spirited dress from a regular dress I couldn't say for sure. Six minutes into my search, I had found it.

It was the little black dress that put all other little black dresses to shame. It had flutter sleeves and fell right below the knee, ending in a beaded lace trim. I looked at the price tag. And in spite of myself, I reached out for it.

Greer appeared behind me, at least five dresses wrapped over her arm. "Shannon!" she said in delight. "Have you actually gotten into shopping spirit? Oh praise everything that's holy. Let me see that."

I automatically handed the dress over to her, and within seconds, I was being jostled into a fitting room. "Come out when you've changed!" Greer commanded, and swung the door shut.

I changed. I came out. And Greer immediately pounced on me.

"You look amazing!" she announced. "You _need _to own this dress. How much is it? No, don't even look. You need it. _I'll _charge it if I have to."

At that moment I was very, very glad it was Greer who was with me. Had it been anyone else, I would have twirled twice in front of the mirror, slipped back into my regular clothes, and hung the dress back on the rack as though it wasn't a big deal at all. But Greer is irrepressible; a force of nature, if you will.

I barely inspected myself in the mirror. I could already tell by the way the fabric felt on my skin that the dress fit like a dream.

Greer didn't stop talking all the way up to the counter. And I walked out of Bloomingdale's with a shopping bag swung over my arm, thinking of the mess I had wreaked in my own bedroom that morning in my haphazard search. I had found it, finally: the perfect dress for the perfect family evening.

It was already seven o' clock when we arrived back in Stoneybrook – our dinner reservations were for eight. I was tempted to make a dash for my car when we finally stepped onto the platform, but my good manners held me back. "Thanks for a fantastic time," I said, hugging Greer tightly. "No tears, okay? Save that for the airport."

"Oh, agreed. I can't come home with my mascara running, my mother will think we got assaulted by some hobos in Alphabet City or something." She kissed both of my cheeks, twice, the French way. "I'll see you tomorrow. At the break of _dawn_." She made a hideous face.

I laughed. My flight was scheduled for six-fifteen; Anna and Greer were picking me up at five. "At the break of dawn," I confirmed.

The numbers 7:11 glare at me from my car clock as I pulled into my driveway. I don't curse on principle, but the temptation was strong as I stepped out of the car with my Bloomingdale's bag, slamming the door shut. I don't slam doors, either.

I had been counting on having at least an hour to get ready. That time was now slashed by more than half: it took twenty minutes to drive to the restaurant in Stamford, so we had to leave before seven-forty. I fished my keys out of my purse and let myself into the house, mentally crossing my fingers that Tiffany and Maria, at least, were ready to go.

They weren't.

I found Maria bent over Astrid in the kitchen, pouring dog food into her bowl. Her auburn curls didn't show signs of having met a hairbrush in days, and she was clad in blue jeans. "Maria!" I said, my tone a mixture of sharpness and anxiety. "Why aren't you dressed?"

"Oh, hi," she said, turning around. "How was your trip with Greer?"

"It was fine. It doesn't matter. Maria, we have to be in Stamford in less than an hour!" The words came out as more of a plea than the stern admonishment I had intended them to be.

Maria looked surprised. "I know! Don't worry. I already know what I'm going to wear. Tiffany's upstairs showering, I think."

"Aren't you going to shower?"

"No, I showered in the morning. Should I?"

I decided that it didn't matter. I left Maria with strict instructions to get to her room and get dressed, then hurried to my own bedroom. In the hallway I passed Tiffany's open door, and what I spotted inside brought me to a halt. "_Tiffany_. What are you doing?"

Tiffany was sprawled across her bed, the phone pressed to her ear. She covered the mouthpiece once she caught sight of me. "Hey!" Her eyes lit upon my Bloomingdale's bag. "Ooh, what did you buy in New York?"

"A dress for tonight," I replied, clasping the shopping bag closer to me. "And speaking of which, why aren't you getting ready? Maria said that you were in the shower."

"I know," she said blithely. "I was about to, but then Gregory called, so I stopped to talk to him and…"

I was vaguely tempted to take the phone and inform Gregory that Tiffany would have to call him back later, but I knew that that would make her refuse to speak to me during all of dinner, and perhaps even after I returned from France. Instead, I said, levelly, "Tiffany, can't you talk to Gregory after we get home for dinner? Or tomorrow, when I'm on a plane to France? Our reservations are for eight, you know. And it's in Stamford."

She made a face at me, but she said her goodbyes and hung up the phone. "Don't get so bent out of shape," she advised me, gathering up her clothes and sweeping out of the room.

I thought that I had been fairly calm, considering. Nonetheless, I headed to my parents' room to use their master bathroom. Tiffany was already using the second floor bathroom, and the downstairs shower had a tendency to leak.

Entering my parents' bedroom is like walking through an abbreviated timeline of their marriage. Small photos of them during their honeymoon and the early months of their marriage sit in frames on the large chestnut dresser – there was my father in a small Parisian café, my mother before a backdrop of clear blue sky, both of them standing in front of the ruins of the ancient Roman Forum. Mounted high on the wall across their bed is an enormous portrait of them on their wedding day.

Somewhere in one of the drawers is a photo album containing solely pictures of Maria, Tiffany and me together in our SDS uniforms, each picture taken at the beginning of each school year. At some point between Maria's elementary and middle school years, the pictures stopped being taken by Mom's steady hand and by the self-timer function on the camera.

Normally I like taking long, hot showers; it's one of the few times of the day that I have all to myself to relax. But time was short. I showered quickly, washing my hair with Mom's pear-scented shampoo. I usually prefer blueberry.

Once out of the shower, I wrapped myself in a big, fluffy white towel. I blew my hair dry at a lightning-fast pace, and almost singed myself in the process. Finally I headed to my bedroom, performed the fastest makeup job on my face that I ever have in my life, and checked the time. Oh, that wasn't good news.

Since I was now certain we were going to be late no matter what I did (I had yelled for Tiffany in the middle of applying blush, and I think that she had still been showering), I took my time dressing. I reached out and lifted my black dress out of the Bloomingdale's bag slowly, almost reverently.

I stepped into it and pulled the sleek fabric up around my skin, then zipped myself up. I rummaged for a few moments through my closet until I found a pair of suitable heels and slipped them on.

Finally, I paused to look over myself in the full-length mirror. For once when I did this, I smiled.

I slipped a silk shawl around my shoulders, grabbed my purse, and headed downstairs. "Maria! Tiffany!" I yelled.

"Yes?" Maria was already standing at the foot of the stairs waiting for me. She was wearing a floral print skirt and a deep green sweater, her hair pulled back in a matching emerald headband.

I smiled. "You look very nice," I told her. "Where's Tiffany?"

"Tiffany's here," Tiffany replied, coming into view at the top of the staircase. She was clad in the crimson empire waisted dress she had chosen for me earlier that day, struggling to put on her left heel as she hopped her way down the stairs.

I immediately made a beeline toward the staircase. "Don't _do _that!" I cried. "You're going to break your neck!"

"No I'm not," she protested, but she stopped long enough to put her shoes on properly and walk down like a normal person. "I saw that you weren't wearing your red dress, so I borrowed it. I hope that's okay."

"That's fine," I said, dismissively. "Now, come on. We're late."

"Hold on," said Tiffany, glancing around the foyer. "I think I might have lost my purse."

I groaned.

It was seven fifty-two when we finally pulled out of the driveway. I drove at a breakneck pace that was entirely uncharacteristic of me, but nonetheless, we ended up reaching the restaurant at eight-fifteen, a quarter of an hour late. The crowded state of the parking lot tacked another two minutes onto that total.

I couldn't help but feel grim as we walked up to the restaurant. I have absolutely no tolerance for lateness. And I hated being late on a night like this.

"Hello," I said to the maître d' as we entered. "Kilbourne, party of five? The other two party members should already be here."

The maître d' furrowed his brow. "Kilbourne?" he repeated as he tapped at the computer keys. "Oh, yes. I'm sorry, madam. Your reservation has been canceled due to the fact that no one showed up to claim the table at eight o' clock. You are welcome to wait in line for a table to be free, of course."

I frowned. "What? That can't be," I said, thinking of Mom's note from the night before. "My mother and father should already be here. We just had some complications getting here. Are you sure?"

He shook his head. "I'm sorry, madam, but no one by the name of Kilbourne was here at eight to claim the reservation. Are you a party of three?" he asked, glancing at Maria and Tiffany. "Would you like to leave your name for a table?"

"No, we're a party of five!" I might have actually begun to argue with him right there if Tiffany hadn't pulled me away.

"Mom and Dad didn't show," she said to me, her tone very matter-of-fact. "It's okay." I nearly expected her to throw in an _I told you so_, but she didn't. "Do you want to stay and wait? I saw a Pizza Arcade across the street."

The idea of eating lukewarm pizza next to a horde of prepubescent boys playing air hockey was so absurd that I almost laughed. Instead, I stepped up to the maître d' again and said very politely, "I'm sorry, but may I use your phone for a moment?"

He looked taken aback. "Madam, it isn't quite restaurant policy – "

"Just for a moment. I'm so sorry. I wouldn't ask, except that I was supposed to meet my parents here at eight and I'm a little worried about them."

I can be very persuasive when I want to be. He let me use the phone.

I dialed the Rossums' number from memory, knowing that my mother had been planning on making a brief appearance at their dinner party before coming here. Mom met Julia Rossum during a yoga class a few years ago, and they've been close friends ever since. Mrs. Rossum has a son named Jake who's a sophomore at Connecticut College, and the two of us have been the unfortunate victims of our mothers' failed attempts to be matchmakers. I don't date. There's simply no time.

Mrs. Rossum's voice answered the phone. "Hello?"

"Mrs. Rossum, hello." I shifted the phone from one ear to the other. "This is Shannon Kilbourne. I was wondering if my mother was with you."

"Shannon!" exclaimed Mrs. Rossum. "How _are _you? Tomorrow is the big day for you, isn't it? Your mother was just telling me all about it."

I almost forced my usual smile until I remembered that she couldn't see me. "I'm fine, Mrs. Rossum. Is my mother there?"

"Oh yes, she's here, darling. Hang on, I'll go fetch her."

A few moments passed, and then I heard my mother's voice on the other line. "_Shannon_…darling, hi…"

My heart sank. I've been to enough functions with my mother to recognize when she's had too much wine. From the sound of it, at the moment she was tipsy and bordering dangerously on drunk. "Hi," I said, my voice flat. "I'm at the restaurant with Maria and Tiffany."

"The restaurant…oh! Oh, darling! You wait right there. Oh, Lord! Now listen, Shannon, I'll be along in a _flash_…"

I sighed and pressed my lips together. "Mom, I don't want you driving after you've been drinking."

"I _haven't _been – "

"Mom, Maria, Tiffany and I are going to eat a nice dinner, okay?" I said. The maître d' was beginning to give me pointed looks. "It's all right. I'll see you…when we get home tonight."

"Well…I suppose if you think that's best…"

"I do. Bye, Mom."

I handed the phone back to the maître d' and thanked him, not even bothering to try getting ahold of Dad. I walked back over to Maria and Tiffany, who had both taken seats alongside some waiting customers. Maria looked anxious. Tiffany looked bored.

We didn't eat dinner at a Pizza Arcade. Instead, I drove along the freeway back to Stoneybrook until we found a place that looked halfway suitable for the clothes we were wearing. We ended up at a roadside diner when Maria began to complain of hunger pains. She ordered a cheeseburger and fries and seemed happy enough. I ordered spaghetti and meatballs and didn't eat a bite.

The driveway was empty when we finally got home. I couldn't say I was surprised.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N**: Someone asked whether regular BSC characters would be featured in the story. All I can tell you is a familiar face (not one of the girls) _will _show up in the very near future.

Thank you so much to everyone so far for reviewing! It means a lot.

_Chapter 3_

My alarm clock went off at exactly four o' clock the next morning, a full hour before Greer and Anna were scheduled to pick me up. I yawned, sitting up in bed, and leaned over to shut it off lest it wake up Tiffany and send her into a monstrous rage.

I stumbled out of bed and pulled a morning robe around me, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. I stopped. I rubbed my eyes again.

On my desk sat a bouquet of flowers: a fantastic floral arrangement consisting of tulips and lilies in a lovely array of shades and colors. Next to it was a note.

Gingerly, I plucked a small white card from its hideout nestled deep inside the bouquet. _Dear Shannon_, it read. _Business meeting that ran late. No avoiding it. So sorry. Next time. Hope Paris is fun, love Dad._

Where he had found the time to find an open florist and have them make this elaborate bouquet, I wasn't sure. I wasn't sure whether it even mattered. I moved onto the note, which was far longer, but, I gathered as my eyes moved down the page, not a whole lot better.

_Shannon,_

_Darling, I am __so __sorry for missing our little dinner last night. I popped over to Julia's just to make an appearance, you understand, appearances are very important and anyway anyhow I think really I must have had, it was quite a fun drink and I must have altogether had too much night. Luckily and oh that darling Jake was there, he's studying abroad in Australia this year I told him oh our Shannon is heading off to foreign countries this year too, Paris, you must meet up while you're both away…_

I stopped reading. Evidently, her multiple glasses of wine hadn't yet released her from their alcohol-induced stupor at the time she had written the note. Whatever tipsy ramblings my mother had in store for me, I didn't think I could handle it at the moment. I just hoped she hadn't driven herself home.

I let the paper flutter back down the desk through my fingers, unread.

Moments later I was standing under the hot spray of the shower, feeling myself become a human being again. The hot water awoke the sensations in my muscles, washing away my disappointment from the night before and reawakening my excitement for what was to come. Despite the hot water beating down on my skin, I shivered as I thought about it. Paris! Within hours, I would be able to call the city home.

Fresh from my shower, I wrapped a towel around myself and flipped my hair upside my head to begin the long process of blow-drying it. My outfit for the plane sat on the bathroom counter: my dark-wash jeans and a deep red cashmere sweater, chosen months ago for the mix of comfort (for the long plane ride) and style (for making a good first impression – which was, really, paramount).

I applied very little makeup: only mascara and a coat of lip gloss. I would touch up on the plane if necessary. I took my time dressing, knowing there was no need to rush.

The clock informed me it was four-thirty when I reentered my bedroom, newly energized. I sat down on my bed and stared at the flowers and note on my desk. A minute passed. Two. Three.

Finally I folded up the note from my mother into a neat rectangle and slipped it into the large black purse I was bringing with me onto the plane. Maybe I would finish reading it then. I left my father's flowers on the desk. Tiffany was a gardening enthusiast; maybe she would find some use of them. I hadn't.

Before going downstairs, I pulled two folders from my filing cabinet and slid them into my purse as well. My _Le Huit _folder, for obvious reasons, and my college folder, because application deadlines didn't go away simply because I had moved to a different time zone.

Everything in order, I slung my purse over one shoulder and stood at the open doorway of my bedroom, looking over everything that had been warm and familiar to me for the last seventeen years of my life. I loved my bedroom. It was my haven from the hectic nature of the rest of my life.

I said a silent goodbye to my bed and my rose-patterned comforter. To my desk, which had accompanied me faithfully through years of physics labs, French Club minutes, scholarship essays. To my closet, to my window, to my old Raggedy Ann doll stuffed in a corner between my bed and my bookshelf. And then I flicked off the light and walked away.

My next two stops were Maria's and Tiffany's respective bedrooms. A few nights before, I had written out a letter each for Maria and Tiffany. I had obviously personalized the letter for each sister, but they were both filled with words of advice for the year to come and reminders of how much I loved and would miss them. I laid the letters down carefully on their pillows for them to find when they woke up.

Downstairs, I made myself a cup of coffee and sipped it as I stole anxious glances out the window. Normally I loathed the taste of coffee, but I had had to pass over real food due to fear for my ability to keep it down. Now that it had come to the final few minutes waiting for Greer and Anna, my stomach was a tangle of nerves and excitement.

I drained the last of my coffee and was just about to rinse out my mug when I caught a glimpse of a very familiar car containing two very familiar faces chugging up into our driveway. I nearly dropped the cup. Instead I hurried to the front door, flinging it open just as Anna had her finger poised to ring the doorbell.

"Hi!" said Anna brightly, then immediately dropped her voice when I gestured toward the staircase and put a finger to my lips, indicating that everyone was still upstairs sleeping. "Hi," she repeated, more softly. "Ready to go?"

I nodded, too keyed up to speak. I waved her into the kitchen, where I had been waiting with all of my things.

Anna followed, her keys dangling from one hand. "Greer refused to leave the car," she informed me as we walked, a touch of amusement in her voice. "She also refused to leave her house when I first rang the doorbell. Luckily her brother was up early to go jogging, and he helped me drag her out."

That got a laugh out of me. I could just imagine.

"Here we are," I announced. My Liz Claiborne luggage sat stacked atop each other in a neat pile. I was bringing three suitcases with me to Paris – two large ones filled with clothes for all types of weather, and a third for miscellaneous items. Being practical-minded, I had wanted to pack for every possible instance, but the even more practical-minded Anna had pointed out that it would save me added burden if I simply bought what I needed in Paris when the instance arose.

It looked as though my burden was quite heavy enough as it was. Anna and I aren't weaklings, but I _had _packed a lot of luggage.

Anna glanced at me. "Maybe we should recruit Greer's brother for this too."

I laughed. "Absolutely not. Come on, these have wheels. Don't wimp out on me here." I grabbed hold of a handle and started tugging.

Anna followed suit with the second large suitcase. "Have you thought about how you're going to deal with this luggage by yourself at the Paris airport?" she asked as we stepped out onto the porch.

"I'm meeting a liaison from _Le Huit _at the airport," I assured her. "I'm sure there will be provided assistance." I came to a stop in front of Anna's Saturn SUV and waited expectantly.

She unlocked the trunk with a flip of the switch. "Don't worry, there's plenty of room. Greer's car is cute, but try to fit anything larger than a breadbox in there."

"Yes, unlike your enormous, gas-guzzling vehicle," Greer's voice rang out waspishly from the front seat. "Hello, Shannon."

I smiled. "Hello, Greer."

"It's a hybrid," Anna shot back, loading up my suitcase. She looked at me. "That was easier than I thought. Would you like to go get the last one, or do you want my help?"

I shook my head. "I'm fine. Be right out."

I dashed back inside the house and into the kitchen. My stomach immediately tightened.

My mother was sitting slumped in one of the kitchen chairs, a lavender robe pulled around her and her hair mussed in a haphazard fashion. She had her arm propped up on the table supporting her head, while she massaged her temple with her other hand.

I stopped and stared from the doorway. No words came to mind. I didn't think my mouth could form any as it was.

Luckily, Mom solved that problem for me by looking up. "Oh, Shannon, darling," she murmured, rubbing her forehead. "Good morning. Are you off to school?"

The accusation _Where were you last night?_ hadfloated up in my throat, but hearing her speak squashed it. I opened my mouth, my words stuck. "Um, yes," I finally answered.

"That's good, that's good…." Mom groaned and buried her head in her arms. "Darling, I've got the worst hangover…whoever Julia Rossum hires to mix the drinks is just lethal. Could you get me some orange juice?"

"Sure, Mom." I moved to fulfill her request before even fully processing what I was doing. Removing a glass from the cabinet, I poured it full of orange juice and set it down on the table in front of her. Next to it I placed a bottle of aspirin. "Drink it down with these, okay? And get some rest."

She nodded into her arms without looking up. I reached for my last suitcase and slipped my purse over my shoulder, ready to leave.

"Shannon?"

I stopped. "Yes?"

"You're a good girl, darling."

My throat tightened. I left.

Outside, Anna had already revved up the engine. She rolled down her window and poked her head out. "Hi! What took you so long?"

I didn't answer. Instead I wheeled my suitcase around to the back of her SUV and loaded it into the trunk, then climbed into the back seat. Anna had turned the radio on. Paul McCartney was singing about all the lonely people. Inside the house, my mother was probably trudging back up the stairs in her robe, downing aspirin.

Anna looked at me quizzically. "Ready to go?'

I nodded and stared straight ahead. "I'm ready to go."

* * *

The airport was relatively empty at five o' clock in the morning, or at least as empty as I could have hoped for on a summer's day. People were trickling in and out the doors, families on their way home from vacations in Hawaii and businessmen on their way off to boring conferences in exotic countries.

Anna and Greer helped me check in my luggage and followed me all the way up until the security checkpoint. Anna had stopped at a Starbucks along the way, so Greer was in a much better mood. She had even sung along to the radio in the car, which had made Anna groan. I hadn't minded. It had made up for my relative silence.

I shifted my purse strap further up onto my shoulder and faced them, my two best friends. This time, Greer was the one to ask it. "Ready to go?"

I nodded. I didn't say anything.

I hugged first Greer, then Anna. They reminded me to write. I reminded them not to forget me. We said a thousand goodbyes within the space of a minute, and then I looked at my watch and said that I had to leave.

On the plane, I was seated next to a young couple who seemed to be off on their honeymoon. I had the window seat, which I appreciated. I leaned my head against it, gazing outside at all the tiny men in jumpsuits running around.

Static cluttered the waves of the intercom. A moment later, a deep male voice rang out through the cabin. "Good morning passengers, my name is Scott Trachtenberg and I'll be your captain for this flight…"

I tuned him out. Underneath us, I felt the engine roar.

I closed my eyes and waited for my new life to begin.


	4. Chapter 4

"Thank you for flying with us, and have a safe stay. Thank you for flying with us, and have a safe stay. Thank you for flying with us, and have a safe stay."

As I waited in line to leave the plane, I decided that I would never want to be a flight attendant. The flight attendant standing at the end of the cabin had a harried look on her face, and there was a certain edge to her voice as she thanked people on their way out.

I couldn't exactly blame her. During our layover in Washington D.C., our flight had been delayed several hours due to bad weather. Right now it was midnight in Paris. We had been originally scheduled to land at six in the evening.

But despite the long flight, the flight attendant, and the crick in my neck borne from falling asleep with my head bent against the window, my entire body was tingling with anticipation. I had been gazing eagerly out of the window during the last half hour of the flight, watching the myriad of bright lights that was Paris draw closer and closer. Now we were _in _Paris. In a few minutes' time, I would be standing on Parisian soil. I would be breathing in Parisian air.

That marked another reason why I would never want to be a flight attendant. I loved traveling; I loved the thrill of it and all of its promises of adventure. I never wanted it to become a monotonous routine.

"Thank you for flying with us, and have a safe stay."

The young couple just in front of me left the cabin, bringing me up to my turn in line. My anticipation rose. I stepped up to the flight attendant.

"Thank you for flying with us, and have a safe stay."

I would have torn down the tunnel if my dignity hadn't held me back. Out in the airport, I scanned the crowd until my eyes fell upon a petite woman with a brunette ponytail, bearing a sign that read KILBOURNE in fat black letters. I smiled and headed in her direction.

The woman spotted me coming toward her and her eyes lit up. "Ah!" she said. "Shannon?"

I nodded eagerly. "_Oui_."

"_Bonjour_!" she exclaimed, and then began speaking hastily, her words all tumbling out in a flurry of rapid French. "My name is Marie Catillon, I am the assistant coordinator of _Le Huit_. I'm so pleased to finally meet you."

"I'm thrilled to meet you as well!" I answered truthfully. "I'm so sorry about the delayed flight. You must have been waiting for hours."

Marie waved my words away. "Oh, not at all. Come, let's go get your luggage."

She continued to talk as we made our way down to baggage claim and located my flight's carousel. "We were hoping to have you back at the university in time for dinner tonight with the rest of the students. You're the last of the eight, so your arrival is very highly anticipated! They've all gone to bed by now, I'm sure, and you must be just exhausted by now. Your room is all ready for you, of course…"

As a matter of fact, I wasn't tired in the least, but I didn't bother correcting her. I was too busy soaking up the very fact of her presence, the very fact of _my_ presence, standing right there in a Parisian airport, on my way to Université Rousseau and my brand-new life.

"Oh, that's mine," I said, pointing to a hefty Liz Claiborne suitcase coming down toward us. Together we hauled it off the carousel, as well as the other two suitcases that eventually came trundling down.

We walked outside into the rainy night. Marie immediately pulled out an umbrella, but I stepped forward, cupping my hands and catching the rain in my palms. My expensive cashmere sweater was getting quickly wet, but I ignored it. I tilted my face upwards, feeling the water fresh on my skin.

Université Rousseau had hired a chauffeured car to drive us to the school. Marie talked most of the way, and while I did my best to politely keep up the conversation, I stared out the window most of the time, captivated by just the storefronts on the street and the women clicking past in their heels on the cold pavement. A certain energy infused the air, something I couldn't quite pinpoint. I was enchanted.

I was enchanted even further when the chauffeur pulled into the main campus of the university. "Oh…" I said aloud, the word escaping my mouth and trailing off.

Marie laughed. "It's lovely, isn't it?"

It was far more than lovely. Tall, cathedral-like buildings rose up to meet the sky in a cross-collision with a line of sprawling trees. Even shrouded in the darkness of the night, I could tell that the photos in my brochures had done the university's true beauty little justice.

The chauffeur pulled to a stop in front of a large structure, and Marie motioned for me to get out of the car. "This is your dormitory," she told me as we retrieved my luggage from the trunk. "When the regular school year starts, you'll find that part of it is filled with freshmen from the university, but the fourth floor has been reserved exclusively for _Le Huit_."

I thanked the chauffeur (Marie pressed a few shiny coins into his palm) and followed her to the double front doors, where she began fiddling around in her oversized red purse. "Everyone must swipe their student IDs here in order for the doors to open," she said, pulling a small plastic card out of her purse.

"Oh," I said. "But I don't – "

"You will be issued a formal Université Rousseau card tomorrow, when the program officially begins," Marie cut me off with a smile. "For now, you may use this temporary card." She swiped it, then handed it to me as the doors opened. It had the words VISITOR'S PASS emblazoned against a background of the main campus.

Just inside the doors, a security guard sat at a counter. He stopped us as we walked in. "Identification?"

"As further measures against intruders, we have guards check students' faces against their ID photos before they enter," Marie explained to me. "You won't have one until tomorrow, of course, but my faculty card will do." She handed it over to the man with a brief explanation regarding me.

We rode the elevator up to the fourth floor, where Marie shepherded me into a room that was half the size of my own room at home. "No roommates," she announced, and smiled. "You have all this space to yourself. Don't you feel lucky?"

I thought about our gigantic house in Stoneybrook with its three floors and sprawling backyard. "Very lucky," I said.

"All right, then," said Marie, clasping her hands together in a very businesslike manner. "I'm sure you're perfectly exhausted by now, so I'll leave you to your sleep. The bathrooms are down the hall that way," she took hold of my shoulders and pointed me in the right direction, "with girls' on the left side, boys' on the right. Last year's dorm residents found it very amusing to steal the gender signs on the bathroom doors and we haven't replaced them yet, so just remember that."

I smiled wryly. Apparently, even the French were prone to juvenile pranks. Perhaps I would feel right at home after all. "Is there anything else I should know?"

"The orientation breakfast is at seven-thirty sharp." Marie tapped her wristwatch. "We showed the other students the location after dinner tonight, but as you weren't here, just follow the others in the morning. You're all living on this floor." She smiled. "Plus, it will be a lovely early bonding experience."

I nodded, making a mental note to set my alarm after she left.

"Now, is there anything else you need?"

I shook my head. "Nothing that I can think of."

Marie fished around in her bag for a moment and came up with a little white card, which she handed to me. "This is my card. Don't hesitate to call if you have any questions or concerns."

I took the card and slipped it into my own purse. "I will. Thank you so much."

"My pleasure," she said. She smiled. "I always love hosting such a remarkably gifted, intelligent group of students. Now, sleep well."

"Good night, Marie."

Once she left, I flung myself across the bed and gazed up at the ceiling, feeling a smile slowly creep across my face. I lay on my back for a few minutes, simply basking in my happiness over being right there in that tiny room, surrounded by students just like me and by the entire city of Paris.

Normally I would be unpacking my things immediately, but I wasn't quite in the mood. I rolled over onto one side, wondering I should call Anna or Greer. Paris was six hours ahead of Stoneybrook, meaning that it would be just around six-thirty for them. I decided against it. After all, it would be right about dinnertime for them – and besides, this was Paris. This was my time.

I got to my feet and walked over to the window, which opened up into a lovely view of the nighttime cityscape. Undoing the latch, I cracked the window open first only up to a small slit, then wider, until I could fit my entire head through.

Light rain splashed onto my hair and my upturned face. I breathed in deeply, once, twice, before closing the window again.

Satisfied, I pulled one of my suitcases onto the bed. Marie had been wrong; I wasn't tired in the least. Usually I would take of advantage of my time to unpack, but for once, I thought that I could leave a task for tomorrow. I decided to take a shower instead.

I unzipped my suitcase to retrieve my towel, which was sitting at the top of the pile, and shuffled through the layers of neatly folded clothes until I came up with a pair of fresh pajama pants and a faded UPenn t-shirt that had once belonged to my dad. Not my sort of thing at all, naturally, but the fabric was wonderfully soft for sleeping in.

Lastly I gathered up my toothbrush and toothpaste, then finally headed out the door. I walked down the empty hallway, my footsteps soft as to avoid waking up the other students on the floor. It was odd having to worry about that, being so used to the spacious corridors of our Stoneybrook mansion that rarely held many people at all.

I reached the bathrooms and found with a smile that Marie hadn't been lying: instead of bearing signs to mark the gender as they ought to have done, the doors were blank slates of polished wood. I twisted the handle of the right door and swung it open.

"Oh my God!"

"Oh my _God_!"

I staggered backwards and ended up with my back slammed against the closed door, clutching my things to my chest.

A tall dark-haired boy, clearly one of the other _Le Huit _students, stood in front of me wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. Water dripped from his black hair and onto his skin.

I realized that I was staring. I immediately averted my gaze, but somehow, I couldn't make words come out of my mouth.

Luckily, he didn't appear to suffer from the same problem. He snatched up a gray t-shirt lying on the counter and pulled it on, to my immense relief. "Who are you?" he demanded. His voice held an interesting lilt to it.

I found my voice. "Shannon Kilbourne. What are you _doing _here?" I returned, just as hotly.

"Ohhh." Understanding came into his eyes. "You're the late girl we waited around for. Well, it's good of you to show up." He offered his hand, his brief moment of shock seeming to have faded away. Inwardly, I couldn't help but marvel slightly at his sudden composure. "Nice to meet you."

I ignored his extended hand. "Pleasure. What are you _doing _here?"

He withdrew his hand and leaned against the counter, regarding me with a curious look. "I just flew in today, from Canada. Typically when I've been through a long plane ride I like to enjoy a cleansing shower. Perhaps that isn't something you're used to in the United States."

I ignored that as well. "Typically when I shower I like to use the right bathroom," I informed him, keeping a steady grip on my things. "Maybe that isn't something Canada is used to?"

He raised his eyebrows. "I'm familiar with the idea. Maybe it isn't something America is very good at, then. Because this is the males' bathroom."

I opened my mouth, then closed it. A glance around the room served to prove that, as meticulous as I was and as unlikely as it seemed, he was right. Somehow, I had misheard Marie's instructions and stumbled into the wrong bathroom.

I felt a faint blush creeping up my neck and immediately spoke, hoping to quell it before it reached my face. I was not, and did not plan on becoming, the sort of girl who blushed. "I'm so sorry. I must have misheard…I promise, this isn't usually the kind of thing I usually do." Realizing that I was tipping over onto the verge of babbling, I quickly extended my hand. "Let me try this again. Hello."

He looked amused. I wasn't sure whether I preferred that or indignant fury. "Hello," he said, taking my hand. His handshake was steady and firm.

"I'm Shannon Kilbourne," I answered. "From Stoneybrook, Connecticut."

His forehead wrinkled. "Stoneybrook? That sounds familiar."

"Really?" I said with a laugh. "That's surprising." The sound of my own laugh comforted me; yes, my ability to carry on a normal conversation had returned. "It's a bit of a nowhere town. There is absolutely nothing to distinguish it from any other suburban East Coast city."

"Is that why you came here?"

"Well – " I began, then stopped. I reminded myself that I had known this person for less than five minutes. I started over. "A bit, I suppose. My French teacher told me about _Le Huit _my freshman year, and it's kind of been one of my goals since. I've always wanted it."

"And you always get what you want, right?"

Somehow he managed to inject enough sincerity into the question that it avoided coming off as sarcastic or condescending. I bristled anyway. "I should leave you to…get dressed," I said, reaching behind me for the doorknob.

He was smiling. "Good call," he said.

I chose not to concern myself over what he meant by that. "It was nice to meet you," I said, pulling the door open. "I'll be formally meeting you tomorrow, I guess."

"Along with the rest of us remarkably gifted, intelligent students," he said. "Did Marie use that phrase on you? She slipped it into her speech at dinner multiple times."

I couldn't help but smile. "She did."

He made an odd sweeping gesture with his hand. "In that case, I will see the remarkably gifted, intelligent you tomorrow at breakfast."

I closed the door behind me and leaned against it for a moment, pressing a hand to my forehead. I had not counted on beginning my Parisian experience by making such a fool of myself.

After allowing myself a few moments to recover, I crossed the hall into the girls' bathroom (I had a brief moment of uncertainty before entering, until I told myself not to be so silly). I showered and brushed my teeth quickly, then gathered up my things to head back to my own room.

As I walked through the hallway, I passed a half-open door. I thought I had been making hardly any noise at all, but as I walked by, I heard my name being called from inside. "Shannon Kilbourne? Is that you?"

I winced, not particularly eager to have another awkward midnight meeting with another _Le Huit _student. "Yes, I'm Shannon," I said, poking my head inside the room. "I'm so sorry, I didn't mean to make so much noise – "

My voice broke off as I caught sight of who was inside the room. The same teenage boy from the bathroom was sitting perched on the desk chair, glancing back over his shoulder at me.

"You apologize a lot," he said.

The words "I'm sorry" nearly escaped my mouth before I realized what I was saying. "Yes, well," I said instead, rather insufficiently.

He smiled, as though he knew what I had been about to say. "I just thought it would be polite to introduce myself," he said. "I'm Michel DuMoulin."

I shook his hand, if only out of a sense of obligation. "Nice to meet you again," I said. Although I should have left straight afterward, I paused and glanced dubiously at the shining desk lamp. "What are you doing up?" I asked. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

He shrugged. "I will. I've got something to do first."

My sense of diplomacy prevented me from prying further. "All right," I said, turning to go. "You really should get some rest, though. We're going to be busy tomorrow." Even I could hear how much I sounded like a middle-aged mother.

"I'll keep that in mind," he said. "Good night."

"Good night to you too."

I entered my own room at long last and crawled into bed, pulling the covers over myself. I thought about Greer and Anna and Tiffany and Maria, but somehow their faces kept being overtaken by the Parisian cityscape in my mind's eye. I thought about all the bright lights I had passed on my way to the university. I thought about the university itself, and the beautiful architecture and land that composed its campus. Last of all, I thought about my encounter with Michel and the desk lamp shining on his open room.

I certainly didn't have the time or energy to analyze _that_. I closed my eyes and I slept.

* * *

**A/N:** I'm so sorry for the wait – my Internet was down for a few days. I hope you enjoyed the chapter, and always, thank you for reviewing! 


	5. Chapter 5

I generally consider myself a morning person. I like harvesting the most out of each minute of the day, and I especially enjoy the time I have to myself when everyone else in the house is asleep. Sometimes I take Astrid out for a morning walk, since I don't have the time to do it later in the afternoon. Sometimes I have breakfast at the kitchen table, reading the morning paper.

I enjoy waking up early. But despite this, I am a human being. And being a morning person did not mean that I was perfectly fine with being woken up at five forty-five – particularly not the morning after a long and tumultuous day of traveling, after having less than five hours of sleep – by a phone call from the very awake and endlessly loquacious Greer Carson. To discuss a boy.

"So he picked me up in that yummy silver Lexus at six, by which time, incidentally, Shannon, I was nearly throwing _up_ with worry from the fact that you hadn't called yet – "

I pulled the covers over my head once more, barely suppressing a yawn as I did. "I _told _you," I said, with a probably undeserved amount of patience, "my flight was delayed."

"Well yes, you told me that now, but at six o' clock what was I supposed to think? Your plane could have burst into _flames_, you could have fallen tragically into unconsciousness on some godforsaken island where the natives had you rotating over a fire that very instant – "

Greer was born for the stage. "But it didn't, and I didn't," I said, stifling another yawn. "Instead I'm here, talking to you about your date with Paul McGrath. And don't get me wrong, as fascinating as I find it, it's practically six in the morning, Greer. Can we have this conversation another time?"

"Oh, of _course_!" Greer exclaimed immediately. "I've been dying to ask, but you seemed so tired that I didn't press it. You've been in Paris for almost six hours already! My God, you must dish."

I closed my eyes and rolled over in bed. That hadn't exactly been what I meant. "Well," I said, "considering that I've been asleep for most of those hours, I can safely say there's little to dish."

"Don't you dare give me that," she shot back. "Paris! Come on, Shannon, you can't lie there in your Parisian bed in your Parisian room in your Parisian university without giving me a thing! Really!"

I pressed my face into my pillow. "Isn't it _midnight _over there?"

"I'm nocturnal," she replied. "He took me to this truly awful tacky American diner where I naturally couldn't eat a thing, so I'm sitting here working my way through a twelve-pack of dragon rolls. I've got all the time in the world. Dish."

"Isn't that sushi with eel? That's vile."

"It's an acquired taste. Now don't change the subject. _Dish_."

I sighed and sat up to glance at the time. Five minutes to six. Breakfast began at seven-thirty.

I supposed that I wouldn't be able to go back to sleep anyway. "All right," I said, falling back against the pillows. "But I have to get off in thirty minutes to get ready for breakfast. What do you want to know?"

"Must you even ask? _Everything_," she said. "Is it gorgeous there? No, of course it's gorgeous. Have you met the people? Are _they _gorgeous? Don't tell me that they're all hideously socially awkward and came to France to escape the teasing back home. Oh God no. _I _could be there instead. Tell me they're fabulous."

"Greer, you didn't even apply. And you take Spanish, not French."

"And what a waste that's been. Well?"

"Well, yes, it is gorgeous here. It was raining last night, but even still, I could tell. And the campus is absolutely beautiful, Greer. I can't wait to see it in the daylight." I twisted the phone cord around my finger. "And as for the people, well, they could be fabulous. I don't know. I've only met one of them so far, and it was a bit…awkward."

"So they _are _all hideously socially awkward," she concluded, disappointed. "Well, that's fine, you'll just have to ditch them and find some friends in the city. You can do that, right? Well, you'll just have to do that."

"No, not like that," I said. I hesitated. "_He _wasn't awkward. It was just…kind of an awkward situation. He seemed to be okay with it, though."

"What? Did he trip over one of your monstrous suitcases? I told you, Shannon, the best thing to do was take out two extra credit cards and charge yourself a fabulous new European wardrobe – "

"Greer, I'm not having this argument again," I said, firmly. "And no. Don't laugh, okay?"

"Shannon, you know I don't keep promises."

"That's true. Fine." I closed my eyes and reminded myself that it was a honest mistake. "All right. So, we're all living on the same floor, and there's this practical joke left over from the dorm residents from last year. They took down the gender signs for the bathrooms – "

"And you walked onto him changing," she finished, sounding horrified. "Oh, _Shannon_."

I nearly dropped the phone. "How did you know?"

"I watch a lot of movies," she said. "_Shannon_. What happened?"

I gave her a brief overview of the encounter, stressing the fact that he had been wearing a towel and thus had been relatively decent. "And so after he introduced himself, I left his room and went to sleep," I concluded, as matter-of-factly as I could. "End of story."

"_Not _end of story," corrected Greer. "You've got to see him today, don't you? Not to mention spend the entire _year _with him."

"Yes, end of story," I said. "It isn't as though I'm going to dwell on this incident! I think we're a bit more mature than that."

Greer relented – which was unusual of her, but I didn't protest. "If you say so," she said, somewhat ominously. "Don't you dare get involved with him, though. If I find out that you're in _Paris _and decided to shack up with some nobody guy from Canada, I will just kill you."

"Noted," I said, and stole a glance at the clock. "I should go now. Get some sleep, okay? You know, the thing that I didn't get any of tonight thanks to one really demanding best friend?"

"I have no idea what you mean," said Greer in her haughtiest tones. "But fine. I'm almost through with my sushi, anyway."

"Night, Greer."

"Go dazzle Paris," she responded. "And hang onto your friend. _I _think she sounds like a keeper."

I hung up, smiling. The clock told me that it was six twenty-seven, leaving me a nice long gap of time to get ready. Figuring that people would start waking up in about fifteen minutes or so, I decided to take advantage of my extra time to get to the bathroom first.

Just in case I wasn't the only one awake, however, I dressed before leaving my room. I wanted to make a solid first impression, like I would have done last night if it weren't for my delayed flight. I unzipped one of my suitcases and sifted through the clothes, vaguely wishing that I had unpacked last night after all.

I decided to lean toward the casual side in my choice of clothes: dark jeans and a burgundy camisole under a black sweater. I stepped into a pair of conservative black heels, just in case.

All the doors were shut as I walked down the hallway. When I entered the girls' bathroom, though, I found that it wasn't as deserted as I had predicted.

A tall girl with cascading brown hair and a golden tan stood at the sink, rinsing out her mouth. At the sound of my entrance, she turned and spotted me. "Oh, hello!" she said in French. "Are you America?"

It took a moment for me to realize what she meant. "Am I…oh! Yes, I'm Shannon. Nice to meet you," I said, offering my hand.

She shook it. "Spain," she said, by way of greeting. "My name is Iliana. We were waiting for you last night!"

"Oh, I know," I said. "My plane was delayed. I'm so sorry, I wanted to meet you all last night! How long have you been here?"

"Just since yesterday," she answered with a shrug. "We all arrived some time during the afternoon." Her eyes suddenly became alight. "But you should meet everyone! Come with me!"

"Oh, no," I protested. "I'm sure they're all asleep, I don't want to – "

"Oh, don't worry about it," she said as she began to throw her things together in her bag. "They are all dying to meet you." Before I knew it, she had taken me by the arm and was steering me down the hall, rapping smartly against the doors with her knuckles. "Everyone! America is here!"

I cringed. Moments later, people came spilling out of their rooms, groaning and yawning. As luck would have it, the first of them bore a familiar face.

"Good! Shannon, this is Canada," announced Iliana. "His name is – "

"Michel," I finished for her.

"We've met," Michel added helpfully.

Iliana's eyes darted back and forth between the two of us. "I see!" she said. I prayed she wouldn't ask any questions. For once, God acceded to my requests. She moved onto the others. "Shannon, this is Australia, Italy, Singapore – "

I shook five more hands and stored away five more names, hoping I would be able to remember them well enough to match them to their home countries. The words "Hi, nice to meet you" hadn't gotten so much mileage in ages.

"Australia" turned out to be a lanky, athletic-looking boy with sandy hair and bright, alert green eyes. His name was James.

Coming from Italy was Niccolò, although, as he added, "My friends often simply call me Nico." As I shook his hand, I couldn't help but think that he was probably exactly what Greer had been talking about when she had urged me to stay away from "nobody Canada guys" in favor of, as crass a wording as it was, greener pastures.

Annabel, from Singapore, was extremely petite and cute as a button.

Rodrigo had flown in from Brazil but had evidently just crawled out of bed, judging by his mussed hair and rumpled clothes. "_Bonjour_," he said with a yawn as he shook my hand.

"Germany" was Katarine, who had fair hair and piercing features. She said very little other than a polite hello, but looked on solemnly.

After everyone had made themselves presentable, we walked together as a group to the Savard Center, where I learned breakfast was being held. I ended up walking alongside James.

"You didn't really miss very much yesterday," he assured me, in English. "We'd all flown in, so no one was what you'd call sane. We all sort of just crashed right after dinner."

"Still," I said, "I'd rather be in Paris with seven other jetlagged people than on a million-hour flight with a swarm of crying toddlers and cranky flight attendants."

He grinned. "Nicely argued. You win."

The Savard Center turned out to be a large, lavish room with wide windows and paintings hung in tasteful arrangements along the walls. I guessed that it could have held thirty people or more quite comfortably, but only a single circular table sat in the center of the room, with eight places set. At the front of the room, four people sat at another table. I recognized Marie, but not the other three.

The woman in the middle smiled as we entered. "Good morning," she said. "Please, help yourselves to breakfast and then take a seat."

Along the walls sat long, rectangular tables weighed down with food. Platters offered up everything from donuts to cereal to fresh fruit. At the end of the table was a coffee machine, next to pitchers of milk and orange juice.

I picked up a plate from the stack and loaded it up with a blueberry muffin and a few strawberries. I took a seat next to James, who had apparently seen it fit to pile half of the buffet onto his plate.

"That's the head coordinator," he whispered to me, nodding to the woman who had greeted us. "Forgot her name. We met her last night."

When all of us were seated, the woman stood. "Good morning!" she said, for a second time. "Although I met many of you last night, my name is Yvonne Blanc and I am this year's head coordinator of _Le Huit_."

She paused and ran her eyes over us briefly. "Let me first begin by thanking you all for being here. As you all know, _Le Huit _is an extremely prestigious program, and this year has been one of our most competitive. It is a pleasure and a privilege to have the opportunity to spend this year with such bright young men and women.

"Let me also introduce my colleagues. This is Marie Catillon, who you may have met last night. She is the assistant coordinator, as well as your climate liaison. Meaning that should you have any concerns or problems regarding your life at Université Rousseau, we encourage you to talk to Marie."

Next, she indicated the man on her left. "This is Vincent Courau, your academic counselor. Classes, of course, will begin next week when the official school year begins. Please consult him for any problems with your schedule or anything else related to your courses. Vincent is also the head of the university career center, so you may also consult him if you wish to participate in any internship programs or other work experience opportunities during your time in Paris. Which, of course, we encourage whole-heartedly."

Lastly, Yvonne introduced the young woman sitting at the edge of the table. "This is Isabelle Aumont, your student liaison. Isabelle is entering her third year here at Université Rousseau and is open to you for questions or concerns."

Once the introductions were over, she moved onto talking generally about what the year would hold for us. Most of it was things I already knew from my brochures and research, but I listened avidly anyway.

"So as the school year does not begin until next week, this week is reserved for _Le Huit _orientation," Yvonne concluded. "Today you will be meeting with Vincent individually to discuss your studies at the university." She paused and smiled. "Later on in the week, the university has sponsored a special outing to celebrate the end of orientation and beginning of the year. You will all be attending a concert at the Théâtre du Châtelet."

Someone let out a cheer, I think Michel. I clapped, thrilled. The Théâtre du Châtelet had a long history of being a prime site for opera, music, and ballet. I had read about it in my frenzy to learn everything Parisian.

Before the concert, however, came business: our consultations with Vincent. I was the first to be called into his office.

"Ah, Shannon," he said as I entered. "Please take a seat."

He himself was sitting in an office chair behind a sturdy, chestnut desk. I sank down into a chair on the opposite side.

"I can't tell you how excited I am to be here," I told him before he began. "This program is just a dream."

He smiled as he pulled a thick folder out of a cabinet and placed it on his desk. "Well, that's good to hear," he said. "Now, I must tell you, I don't work on the admissions committee, but I've seen a fair share of impressive applications." He tapped the folder in front of him. "Yours here was extraordinary."

I felt a faint blush rise. "Thank you," I said.

"One thing I'd like to ask," he continued. "Often we get students who are especially dedicated to a specific area. Physics, the humanities, what have you. What are you particularly interested in?"

I barely considered my response before answering. "Everything," I said honestly. "I can't say that I'm tied down to any one thing – it's more as though I'm tied down to a number of different things, almost everything. As you can probably tell from my application, I've spent a lot of time investing myself in several different arenas. French Club, of course, but also Astronomy Club, Mock Trial, Future Business Leaders of America…"

I let myself trail off, and he nodded. "That's fine. That's very good, in fact. This is the very time in your life for experimentation. I only ask to determine your desired areas of study, and of course, your course list for the semester." He began sifting through piles of paper and leaflets. "If I may inquire as to…"

By the time I left Vincent's office, I was more eager than ever to dive into academic life at the university. For the first semester, I would be taking four courses: a basic psychology class, a physics class that Vincent told me focused mainly on theory and Einstein's life, European history, and a literature class based around stage plays.

"Oh, also," said Vincent, just as I was about to rise from my seat. "As you heard Yvonne mention, I am also the career liaison for Université Rousseau. In your case, of course, it would be mainly internships and other basic work experience opportunities. Some _Le Huit _students decline, as they already have quite enough on their plates. Are you interested?"

I didn't even hesitate. "Absolutely," I said. I scheduled another appointment with Vincent to discuss my options.

"All right then," he said. "I think I'm done with you for today. I'll see you on Wednesday. Could you please ask Mr. DuMoulin to come in?"

I left the office, though not before thanking him profusely. Outside, I found the others engaged in conversation. I frowned. "Where's Michel?" I asked.

Iliana answered. "He received a phone call about five minutes ago and left," she said. "He said he had to go get something from his room quickly."

I tried not to sigh. "It's his turn to meet with Vincent. I guess one of you should go and take his place, then. I'll go find him."

The dorms were only a two-minute walk from the building Vincent's office was in, but it was cold outside. I wrapped my coat tighter around myself as I made the short journey, using my newly-acquired student ID to let myself into the building.

Only when I reached the fourth floor did it occur to me that I didn't remember which room was Michel's. I almost resigned myself to walking up and down the hallway, calling his name, until I noticed that one of the rooms had its door half-open. I walked toward it.

Inside, however, was no Michel. I glanced around, wondering if this was even his room. A bunch of open folders were scattered on the desk, spilling out various papers. I leaned closer, hoping to catch a glimpse of his name to confirm that I was in the right place.

What I saw took me aback. Birth certificates, photographs, and handwritten letters lay strewn across the desk. I drew back – that hadn't been what I had counted on finding.

_Creak_.

I spun around just in time to see Michel pushing the door open and entering the room. "Shannon?" he said, surprised.

"Oh – hi," I said. For the second time in twenty-four hours, I had to struggle to find my voice. "Hi. I just got through with Vincent and he told me to bring you in. The others told me you were in your room…"

"You're done already? James and I were starting to take bets. Kilbourne, you just cost me some valuable Euros."

His tone was good-natured. Typically I would have responded with similar sarcasm, but instead I only smiled vaguely, faintly relieved. "Right," I said. "So come on, let's go back to the group…"

He shrugged. "Okay."

Together, we left the room and I managed to refrain from prying. As he fiddled with the lock, I turned to catch another glimpse of his desk.

But he shut the door, and we left.


	6. Chapter 6

"But look, this is our break time. They wouldn't have given it to us if they weren't encouraging us to spend it…"

James shrugged. "And normally I'd be all for it. But we spent all day in the city, and we're going out again tonight to see that concert. Plus, I'm tired. None of us has gotten much sleep this week. I'd rather stay here."

Annabel, sitting on the bed, hugged her knees to her chest. "Me too."

Iliana made a frustrated noise in the back of her throat. "But it's different! Isabelle and Marie were with us the entire time. Come on, it would be fun."

"I don't think we should go either," Katarine injected unexpectedly. She rarely spoke.

Iliana cast me a pleading look. "Shannon?"

"I'm not taking a side in this," I responded without glancing up, turning another page in the humanities coursebook Vincent had given me. A class description that looked faintly interesting jumped out at me, and I circled it in red marker.

The eight of us were all spread throughout Niccolò's bedroom, locked in a fierce debate. We had just spent the last day of orientation out in the city with Isabelle and Marie, who had given us as much of a tour as they could. It was five o' clock, and we had only just gotten back. Iliana was dead set on using our break time to explore Paris on our own, despite that we would be back in the city again in a few hours. The Théâtre du Châtelet. I couldn't wait.

"Although," I added as I made another mark on the page, "I will say that it's a little impractical to explore a foreign city in the evening alone. None of us are really familiar with it yet."

"I am," Michel said, out of the blue.

Now I did look up. He was leaning against the open doorframe with his arms crossed against his chest, and he hadn't spoken until just now. "You are?" I said.

He nodded and pushed himself off the doorframe, shoving his hands in his back pockets. "My dad is from France. I've been here several times before. So if you all want to explore the city, I can make sure you don't get, you know, raped and murdered and so on."

"A winning endorsement," I muttered, shutting my book. "Listen, James is right. We're all tired and we just spent the day together in the city. Let's split up and hang out here in the dorms, then regroup for dinner in an hour."

There was a brief wave of assenting murmurs throughout the group, and then people began leaving the room. I headed for my own room with the coursebook tucked under my arm, with the full intention of spending the hour poring over it.

To my surprise, my phone was ringing when I entered my room. I dove for it, in case it had been ringing for awhile. "Hello?"

"Shannon?"

"Maria!" I said in delight, recognizing the voice in an instant. "Hi! How are you?"

"Um…fine."

I frowned as I shifted the receiver from one ear to the other. Usually Maria was happy to talk endlessly about the most inane things. "What's been going on at home? How's Tiffany?"

"Fine…." She trailed off again. I waited, patient. After a few moments, she started up again. "Well, actually…Shannon?"

"Yeah?"

"Well, Mom and Dad got into kind of a fight last night."

I almost said, "Oh, is that all?" before I thought better of it. I had to admit it was surprising, though. Our parents used to fight a lot, until Mom started taking so many classes and spending all of her time at the country club and other friends' houses. Their collective absences meant that they had little time together, and little time to fight. It had been that way for the last few years. I personally preferred it that way.

I searched for the right thing to say to Maria. What came out was, "They were both home?"

"Uh-huh. Well, no," she said. She paused. "That's what started it. Dad came home at eleven and he was kind of annoyed. Something about Mom maxing out his credit card and having to buy dinner for five clients. And then he said, 'Where's your mother?' and then when he found out she was at the Rossums' he said, 'Well of course,' and then he went to get her and…"

"And?" I prompted her.

It took a moment for her to pick up where she left off. "And then when they came back, they were shouting at each other. I think Mom was…" She dropped her voice. "…you know."

I did know. "And then what? What were they shouting about?"

"I don't know. Dad called Mom an," she paused again, "an, an alcoholic. And she said, 'Certainly not,' and then they just kept yelling the same things over and over. And finally…"

This time, she didn't start up again right away. "Maria?" I said gently. "Are you there?"

"I'm here," she said, her voice sounding strained.

"Can you tell me what happened then?"

"Well…finally Dad said, 'This is why we should have gotten that divorce four years ago,' and Mom said, 'We did it for the children, _remember_?' and Dad said…'A lot of good it's done them.'"

My heart dropped. "They said this in front of you?" I demanded.

"I was upstairs. I think they thought I was sleeping."

I closed my eyes and sank down on my bed, still holding the phone. "Maria…" I began. No words felt right.

"It's okay," she said immediately. Her voice still held that odd strained quality. "I just thought that maybe you would want to know. That's why I called."

"Maria, I – "

"I have to go now," she interrupted me. "I'm babysitting Sari Papadakis. Bye, Shannon."

"Wait – "

_Click_.

She hung up the phone before I could get another word in. I stared at the receiver in my hand for a moment, then finally set it back down, slowly.

"Hey, Shannon?"

I turned abruptly to see James poking his head in the open door. "Michel, Katarine and I are going to hang out in the campus coffee shop before dinner. Want to come?"

"Oh," I said. I tried to smile. "No, thanks. I'm kind of tired. I'll see you guys at six, though."

"Sure. Show up whenever you want if you change your mind."

He left, and I reached for my coursebook. But as I leafed through the pages, I found myself unable to focus in on the class descriptions. My mind slipped away from the text and meandered into unsafe territory, lingering on my conversation with Maria.

I shut the book and leaned against my pillows with a sigh. I glanced at the phone.

Calling home was a useless option. For one thing, I was fairly sure that nobody would be there, and for another, I had no idea what I would say if anyone did pick up.

The hour before dinner passed in a haze. To distract myself, I pulled out my college folder. I immersed myself in a world that made sense to me. I filled up my head with deadlines and course requirements, essay prompts and scholarship opportunities, alumni interviews and teacher recommendations.

My application to Yale would be stellar. It would be "extraordinary," just like Vincent had described my _Le Huit _application. I unpacked my laptop and I tapped away. And it worked. For an hour, I thought about nothing else.

Six o' clock came with a chiming of the clock and a knock on the door. "Come in," I called.

The door opened, and Iliana appeared. "Hello!" she said. "That's where you've been. Come, it's time for dinner. We're all out in the lounge."

"Oh!" I closed my laptop. "Of course. Give me a second, I just need to grab my coat."

Iliana had been positioning herself to leave the room, but when I said that, she stopped and wrinkled her forehead. "Is that you're wearing tonight?"

I stopped, too, and glanced myself over. I was still in the outfit I had worn during the city tour that day: another dark-jeans-and-cashmere-sweater combo. It had seemed appropriate for walking all over an entire city. "Yes?" I tried.

Her forehead creased further. "But," she began, then seemed to stop and start over. "I mean, you look lovely already. You do. But this is a special night! The Théâtre du Châtelet! We must find you something special to wear, don't you think?"

Before I could respond, Iliana had already sailed on over to the wardrobe and flung it open. I had unpacked earlier in the week, so all of my clothes were hung up or folded neatly. She sifted through them, her fingers flipping expertly through the hangers. "Shannon!" she said. "You have _wonderful _clothes! Why don't you wear them?" She pulled out a black skirt. "This is pretty. It would go nicely with…" A few more moments of rummaging later, she came up with a deep red sleeveless blouse. "…this."

I had actually worn that exact outfit a fair number of times in the past. If it would make her happy, I didn't mind acquiescing. "Okay, just give me a few – "

"Oh, _this _is lovely!" Iliana exclaimed, pulling another hanger out of the wardrobe. She held it up with relish.

I felt my stomach tighten. She was holding up the dress that I had bought especially for our failed Stamford dinner. The little black dress that put all other little black dresses to shame. The perfect dress for the perfect family evening.

Now she was pushing it toward me, trying to press it into my hands. "I bet it looks fantastic on you. And it's perfect for the concert!"

I shrank away from her, almost unconsciously. "No…I mean, no thank you," I said, in as diplomatic a tone as I could muster. "I don't – I'm not sure if it fits."

It was a lame excuse and we both knew it, but Iliana chose not to press the issue. "If you say so," she said with a shrug, turning to hang the dress back up. She flopped down on the bed next to me. "Are you going to wear that, then? I mean – it's fine if you do. You still look pretty."

I forced a smile. She was being nice. "No, I will change. Tell the others I'll be out in a few minutes, okay? I won't take long."

"Okay." She swept out of the room, leaving me sitting on the bed and feeling particularly pathetic.

I ended up wearing another black dress, one I had bought for an SDS formal that held no memories whatsoever. I applied my makeup in a hurry (a light job, just lip gloss and mascara) and hurried out the door, now very conscious of the time.

"Here she comes," announced Iliana, who was standing outside the lounge, apparently waiting for me. "You look very pretty," she told me.

I smiled. "Thank you," I said. "You do, too." It wasn't a lie. She had opted for the other end of the color spectrum, swathing herself in a long ivory dress. It looked striking against her tanned skin.

I entered the lounge to find everyone sprawled across the couches and the floor. They were all fully decked out in formal wear and playing cards. I almost laughed at the sight. "Hi, everyone," I said.

Iliana came in right behind me. "Good!" she said, pleased. "Now we can decide where to go for dinner."

I tilted my head to one side. "Maybe we should just eat at one of the on-campus places. I think that's what Marie is expecting us to do, anyway."

"Shannon!" Iliana sounded dismayed. "No, we must go out."

"Not somewhere too formal, though," Annabel added. "We don't want to be late for the concert."

Rodrigo glanced at his watch. "Don't worry," he said. "The concert doesn't start for a few hours. We have time."

"Better go somewhere nearby, though, just in case," Michel put in from his spot standing near the open window. He had playing the harmonica, for some inane reason, but now he stopped. "I know a place."

I turned a skeptical eye on him. "You do?"

"Hey, I told you. My dad is from Paris. My family used to come here a lot."

I wasn't entirely keen on following a plan concocted without the approval of one of the _Le Huit _coordinators, but the rest of the group seemed happy about it. Someone called Marie to let her know, and after a few minutes on the phone with Michel, she gave her consent. We would meet her at the theatre, along with Isabelle.

Dinner at Michel's restaurant turned out to be wonderful. At least, the food itself was wonderful. I found my mind constantly wandering from the conversation. A few times throughout the meal I thought I glimpsed Michel looking at me, but I wasn't certain. In any case, I was sitting next to Iliana. Her steady stream of chatter was far more than enough to divert attention away from myself.

I began to feel more like myself again as we began walking toward the theater. Being outside helped. I breathed in deeply, the cool night air feeling like a personal balm for all my troubles.

Somehow, Michel fell into step beside me. "I noticed you were the only other one with the humanity to applaud for this thing when Yvonne announced it," he said.

I smiled despite myself. "I appreciate a good thing when I see it," I answered.

"Smart girl."

I stole a sidelong glance at him. He was striding along confidently in his jacket and tie, as though he had walked these streets a million times before. But then, I reminded myself, he probably had. "How many times have you been here?" I asked.

"The Théâtre du Châtelet? Just once."

"No, Paris."

"Oh." He didn't say anything. For a second I thought he wasn't going to answer my question at all. "We used to come here every other year in the summer," he said finally.

I looked at him again. "You and your family?"

"Yes." He didn't add anything else, and I didn't ask anything else.

We walked along in silence for a few minutes. Then Michel spoke up again. "Have you ever been here before?" he asked.

"Oh…" This time it was my turn to hesitate. "No," I said, after a moment. "I was supposed to go once, a long time ago, but it didn't work out."

"What happened?"

It was an earnest question: he wasn't prying, he was genuinely curious. I debated over whether to tell him or not. My dignity won out. "It's a long story," I said finally.

He shrugged. "We've got time."

I searched for the right phrasing and realized it didn't exist. "It was a school trip. There were some complications…it's a long story."

This time he didn't push any further. I got the idea that he was familiar with long stories.

We met Marie and Isabelle at the theater, where they hurriedly ushered us into our seats. I was slightly openmouthed in awe during the entire concert. James, sitting next to me, told me during intermission that he had been worried because I had looked catatonic.

It was fairly late when we all finally spilled out of the theater. I was still glowing from the concert, and when excited conversation bubbled up within the group, I joined in.

My good mood lasted me all the way back to the university, up to the fourth floor and into my bedroom. I collapsed onto the bed and kicked my heels off, throwing myself against the bedspread and staring at the ceiling with a ridiculous, exhilarated smile. _This _was what my Paris experience was all about.

I sat up and stared at my open door. Katarine, Annabel and Niccolò had retired to bed, but I was fairly sure that the rest of the group would be hanging out in the lounge. I was too keyed up to sleep – perhaps I should join them.

I decided to crash the lounge after I took a shower, and was just about to gather up my pajamas when the phone rang. I reached for it, hoping that it was Anna. I knew she would die to hear about the concert.

"Hello?"

"No, I am _not _being unreasonable – oh, hello, Shannon…"

My stomach froze. It wasn't Anna. It wasn't even Greer. "Hi, Mom."

"Darling," she slurred. "Darling, I'm so sorry to interrupt your time in Paree…it's just that your father and I are having a little disagreement and your father seems to think I've misplaced his briefcase – not the black one, darling, the brown leather – "

"IT'S IN THE DOWNSTAIRS STUDY! I TOLD YOU!" A new voice, tearful and loud. Maria.

"Now don't shout, Maria darling, I – _I can talk to our own daughter any way I like! I don't see you talking to any of them! _– now, Maria…"

"I TOLD YOU WHEN DAD FIRST STARTED YELLING! WHY DID YOU HAVE TO GO CALL SHANNON?"

"I _told _you, Maria, don't shout…Shannon, darling, I'll have to call you back later."

_Click_.

I had been hung up on for the second time that day. I stared at the receiver in my hand for a second, then scrambled to the phone. I tapped out my home number as quickly as I could, my breath caught in my throat.

The phone rang, and rang. Nobody answered.

Slowly I set the phone back down and sat back down in my makeup and my fancy black dress. I touched the hem of it.

"Hey, Kilbourne, Iliana wants to know if – "

It was Michel. He had entered the room, but he stopped when he caught a glimpse of me.

"Sorry," he said, backing up. "Sorry. I'll…"

I couldn't work up the energy to say anything. He studied me for a few moments, then came over toward me. When I didn't object, he sat down next to me, tentatively.

"Do you want to talk?"

For awhile, I couldn't find words. Then I almost laughed. "It's a long story."

He shrugged. "We've got time."


	7. Chapter 7

Talking to Greer is like talking to a wall. We've been friends for years and I adore her, but she is rarely my go-to person in times of need. I don't mean to say that she isn't willing to listen, because she is. And I don't mean to say that she doesn't care, because she does. In fact, she would be probably be terribly hurt (and terribly prone to throwing one of her fits) if she knew I was keeping a problem from her.

Talking to Greer means that for every difficulty, every crisis, every trouble in my life, she forces me to go over every single detail. She hems and haws over it all, lingering over each point, and proposes a variety of wild solutions. She discusses it endlessly in her rich, Broadway-star voice, and won't let up until the problem is "cured" and I'm exhausted.

Talking to Anna is different. She doesn't overwhelm me with advice. Instead, she overwhelms me with sympathy. She doesn't mean to, I'm sure, but when I'm confiding something upsetting, every word she says drips with a special brand of pity that makes me cringe. It's worse than Greer's Spanish Inquisition. Prying, I can handle. Pity, I can't.

Talking to Michel was different from either of them. He didn't push. He didn't ask questions, except for periods when I lapsed into silence and he said, "Do you want to go on?" He didn't rub my shoulders and tell me that everything would be all right. He didn't force from me answers I didn't want to give. He just listened.

"I'm not sure where to start," I said.

"You could start at the beginning," he said.

I closed my eyes and opened them. He was still there. "I'm not sure when that is."

"Okay," he said. No signs of impatience. "Start with why you're sitting here in your room all dressed up, looking like someone just slapped you."

I glanced down at myself. My hands were folded in my lap, looking very pale against the lace-edged skirt of my black dress. "I got a phone call," I said.

"From?"

"My mom," I said. I closed my eyes.

"What did she say?"

It was then that I actually laughed. "This is stupid," I said, aloud. "This isn't _therapy_." I looked at him. He didn't say anything. "I'm an honor student, you know," I continued, my voice clear and loud. "Honor Society, five years in a row. President of French Club. I placed second in the entire New England area for debate. I was the youngest person ever to qualify for Astronomy Club…"

I petered out. He certainly didn't seem to be impressed, and neither was I. In fact, I was growing increasingly sickened by myself with each accomplishment I spat out.

I stood up. My room was tiny, half the size of my room at home, so I paced the length of it over and over. "I just…"

Tears stung my eyes. I blinked them back furiously. "I just…"

Michel didn't say anything, but he reached out his hand. I took it, and he pulled me back onto the bed. I sat down and re-folded my hands in my lap.

"It's stupid," I said.

No answer.

I didn't spill the entire story. I didn't tell him about the original Paris story in eighth grade, when I essentially gave my mother a free pass to check out of my life. I didn't tell him about the extent to which my father had checked out of all our lives, years and years ago.

I didn't tell him about how much I was counting on escaping to Yale, how the only downside of the school was the location and its close proximity to Stoneybrook. I didn't tell him about how despite that, in a way I was glad, because it meant I could still return home every now and then to check on Maria and Tiffany and reassure myself that our parents hadn't ruined them any more than they had ruined me.

I tried to keep it as brief as I could. I told him that my mother and I had an awkward, uncomfortable relationship that was only accented by her obvious desire to stay outside the house as often as possible. I told him about her classes, her friends, her dinner parties and her benefits.

"Benefits?" he repeated.

"It's too stupid to even get into," I said. "When the mood randomly strikes them, Mom and her friends will decide that they care passionately about illiteracy, or AIDs, or single mothers on welfare, or _something_. It's just an excuse to buy a new dress and get plastered."

That was the most I mentioned about Mom's drinking. Maybe he inferred it through other things I said. If he did, he didn't ask.

I told him about my seventeenth birthday earlier that April, how Mom had only remembered because Greer had been planning my party and mentioned it to her mother, who in turn mentioned it to mine. Dad hadn't remembered at all, but then, I hadn't expected him to.

I told him about how I had stopped expecting a lot of things from my father: birthday cards, Christmas gifts, a filled seat at the head of the family dinner table every night. His presence. His love.

I told him about Maria and Tiffany. How much I looked out for them. How much I worried about them. And when I finished, I realized I hadn't so brief after all.

He still didn't say anything, but at the point, I had stopped expecting him to. I kind of enjoyed it. I appreciated his silence, although not as much as I appreciated his presence.

I was still wearing my dress. I shifted in it.

"I've known you for a week," I said.

I wasn't sure if I was expecting him to answer, but he did. "You've been counting the days?" he said. "I'm touched."

I started to laugh, and when I did, I started to cry as well. Messily, with the tears mingling with my mascara and staining my cheeks. Michel was there in an instant, his arms wrapped around me, firm and protective.

But I recovered quickly. In seconds I had straightened up again, wiping the tears away with the back of my hand. "Sorry," I said. "Sorry."

He wasn't hugging me anymore, but he did have a hand resting on my forearm. "You apologize a lot," he said, echoing, word for word, something he had said the very first time we had met.

I ignored that sentiment and reached for a tissue from the box on my nightstand. "On a scale from one to ten," I said, wiping my face, "how pathetic do you find me right now?"

He shrugged. "Zero."

I crumpled the tissue in my hand. "Be honest."

"I am. Listen."

I looked at him.

"Your family is pretty messed up," he said, frankly. "I live with just my mother, and I don't have any, you know, great pearls of wisdom to share about parents. But you're not pathetic. They are. You don't need to apologize for things that aren't your fault."

"Your parents are divorced?" I asked.

"No. My dad died a few years ago."

My hand flew to my mouth. "I'm so sorry."

"There you go again."

I realized what I had said and almost blushed. I searched for something to say. "Were you close?" I said.

He nodded, but didn't offer anything more. I wondered if he had grown so used to it – both the telling and the reactions it garnered – that it no longer hurt when he said it. I wondered whether the hurt ever did go away. I thought about how insignificant my problems seemed in comparison.

As though reading my mind, he spoke again. "I was lucky," he said.

"Lucky?" I echoed stupidly.

"Yes," he said. "My father and I were very close. I don't really know what it's like to have parents like yours. I don't think you're pathetic. Not even close."

I absorbed this slowly. "Do you have siblings?" I asked.

An odd look flitted across his face, but it disappeared. "No," he answered. "Why?"

"I was just thinking that you would make a really good older sibling."

It was as though he knew exactly what I was thinking. "You are a great older sibling. The best," he said. "I would never help my little sisters with their homework. And I hate babysitting."

At that, I almost smiled. "I used to belong to this babysitting club once," I said.

He raised his eyebrows. "And this is in addition to the five-year Honor Society, the French Club presidency, the second in all of New England debate championship title…"

I made a face. "Don't, please."

"I'll stop."

"Thank you."

It was a relatively lighthearted response, but as the words came out, I realized how much more I meant by it. I glanced up at him. "Really," I said. "Thank you."

He squeezed my arm in response. "It's past midnight," he said. "How are you?"

I knew what he was asking. "I'm fine now," I said, and attempted a smile to reinforce my point. "You can go to sleep."

He didn't look wholly convinced, so I stood and took his hand, pulling him to his feet. "Come on," I said, tugging him to the door. "Classes start tomorrow – you need sleep, and so do I."

I don't think he believed me, but he followed obligingly. We stood in the frame of the doorway, facing each other. I was barefoot, which made our height difference even more conspicuous when he enveloped me in a hug. "Take care," he said. He kissed the top of my head. And then he was gone.

My sleep that night was short and dreamless. I woke up the next morning in a daze, momentarily confused by my surroundings until my eyes landed on the campus view outside my open window.

My day began with a short breakfast in the dining hall with Katarine and James, the only other people without a morning class that day. I'm sure my appearance came off as somber: I was dressed in a black-and-white printed skirt and black cardigan, complete with a wide black headband pushing back my wavy blonde hair. I wanted to make the best possible impression, and the color black had struck me as particularly European.

It was true that I only had two classes that day, but the real reason I was so concerned about my appearance was scheduled for later on. After our career center appointment, Vincent had set up a meeting for me that day with the reviews editor of the magazine _Coeur _regarding a possible internship opportunity. I certainly wanted to look my best for that.

James sat down across from me, plunking down a tray filled with food. "So, Monday stragglers," he said, "what's everyone in for today? I've got philosophy."

Katarine bit into an apple. "Physics," she said, in that understated way of hers. "And chemistry."

"I have physics, too," I chimed in. "Plus European history." I turned to Katarine. "Which professor?"

"Guillemin."

"Same! We'll be together, then," I said.

Katarine didn't smile, exactly, but she nodded and said, "That's good."

"Your day sounds pretty science-heavy," said James, addressing Katarine. "Sure you'll survive?"

"Yes," she said simply. I thought she wasn't going to add any more, but then she said, "I love science. That's what I told Vincent to base my schedule around."

"Very cool," I said, impressed as I always was by someone so focused. I looked at James. "Are you a science person, too?"

He laughed. "No. No, I'm going into the humanities like your usual slacker."

"Oh, come on," I said, knowing that to be accepted into _Le Huit _was no slacker accomplishment.

"No, it's true," he said. "Vincent called me in and I said, just sign me up for anything. See what sticks."

"That sounds a little like my session," I said. "I ended up signing up for this whole mix of classes." I smiled and toyed with my spoon, feeling a little rush of anticipation for the day ahead. "I'm really excited, though."

The day did not disappoint. My physics class began, and I found myself so absorbed that I nearly forgot to take notes. Just as Vincent had promised, Professor Guillemin's class focused mainly on Einstein's theory of relativity, and Guillemin himself presented it in a way that made it understandable.

"Now, you will tell me that the _why _and _how _of something is negotiable depending on perspective, but the _when_ is always constant," Professor Guillemin boomed. "This is not true. _When _something happens can be different for this young lady here, for example, from when _I _think something happens. Process thus for a moment. How? Now, say this young man here is standing on a train and…"

I shot a glance at Katarine. She looked positively enraptured.

My European history professor was a seventysomething-looking man who I could picture leaning back in an armchair, smoking a cigar and telling his grandchildren stories about glory days. I listened avidly, and was disappointed when the class came to an end.

"What are you interested in?" I asked Michel later on that day. My breakfast conversation with Katarine and James was on my mind.

We were walking through the early evening, light rain falling down on us. Marie had had a minor coronary when she had found out that my meeting with the _Coeur _reviews editor was outside of campus; she didn't want me out by myself in the city. Luckily Michel, the Paris veteran, had stepped in and offer to escort me. I wasn't sure whether he had an ulterior motive, hoping to check on me. Of course I didn't ask.

"What am I interested in?" Michel repeated. "The harmonica. John Lennon. Sartre. The Toronto Blue Jays. Is this a game?"

I smiled. "Sartre," I said. "How very pretentious of you."

"Be glad I didn't say J.D. Salinger."

That made me laugh. "The Blue Jays. What is that, basketball?"

"_Baseball_," he corrected me, sounding slightly horrified. "How could you not know that? I thought you were intelligent."

"I _am _intelligent. Don't you remember? Honor Society, five years …"

I looked at him to make sure he knew I was joking. He laughed.

"I found out today that Katarine is taking physics _and _chemistry," I said, wanting to continue my original line of conversation. "And some multivariable calculus class."

"Really?"

"Yeah," I said. "I had no idea she was such a math and science person."

"One of us has to be. And I'm not," he said dryly.

"What kind of person are you, then?"

"One who knows and appreciates the full worth of the Toronto Blue Jays."

I rolled my eyes. He relented.

"All right," he said. "I like history. Government. Politics. That sort of thing. I'd like to be a lawyer eventually."

"A lawyer?" I considered this, and decided that it fit. Michel seemed endlessly cool and unruffled, certainly the lawyer type. Unassuming and confident.

He was watching me. "You disapprove?"

I shook my head. My father was a lawyer, but a different kind. The kind who got into Harvard Law based on five generations of alumni, who looked down on anyone in a skirt, who steamrolled everyone until he got his way. That kind. "No," I said. "I can see it."

"Well, that's nice to know." We walked a few steps in silence before he spoke up again. "How about you? What is this internship for, anyway?"

I smiled, thinking of how excited I had been when Vincent had told me about it. "This new magazine called _Coeur_," I said. "It just started up last year or so, and it's like the twentysomething's guide to culture in Paris. Music and theater especially. Vincent got me an interview with the reviews editor."

"Sounds impressive."

"It would be an _incredible_ experience," I said. I shifted the packed folder I was carrying from one arm to the other. "I just hope she likes me."

"She will. She will love you."

We reached the building where the meeting was taking place. I stole an anxious glance at Michel. "I don't know how long this is going to take," I said. "Do you…"

He shook his head. "I have my harmonica with me. I'll play on the sidewalk for coins. By the time you come back, I'll be a millionaire." I stared him down, and he laughed. "I brought a book. Relax. Take your time."

I relaxed. "Thank you," I said, and on impulse, threw my arms around him.

"No problem," he said. "Now go."

Catherine Baer, the reviews editor, turned out to be sophisticated-looking woman with cascading black hair. Her voice was rich, like Greer's, and she constantly referred to me as _ma chérie_. I wasn't sure if I instantly liked her, but I felt a sense of respect for her right away.

"So," she said, lacing her fingers together. "You want to work at a magazine. What brings you to _Coeur_?" 

I began talking. I wasn't overly nervous; I knew I made good impressions and adults usually liked me. I told her how much I loved French culture, naming some films and plays in particular that had made their mark on me. I went on to describe what a hard worker I was, showing her the teacher recommendations I had gotten for _Le Huit_. I talked myself up without coming off as conceited, an art I had perfected at SDS.

The meeting lasted just a little under an hour. I left the building, my eyes searching for and zeroing in on Michel. I nearly ran toward him.

"I got the internship!" I said, thrilled. "I start in two days!"

He put down his book. "Didn't I say she would love you?"

His tone was knowing, almost chiding, but he was smiling. I hugged him and he let me, resting his chin on the top of my head. Suddenly, I felt him freeze.

I stepped back and out of his arms, looking up at him. "Are you okay?"

His eyes were fixed on a figure in the distance. He stared, apparently not hearing me.

I touched his arm. "Michel?"

He came back to earth. "What? Oh – congratulations!"

I frowned. "What's wrong? Did you see something?"

He shook his head, focusing his eyes back on me. "No. No. I thought I saw someone, but it wasn't them."

"Who did you think it was?"

"No one." Michel began steering me back on the way toward the university again. "Come on, let's get back in time for dinner."

I wasn't one to interfere in other people's business, but suddenly a memory from earlier last week came into my head. Michel's desk. Birth certificates. Photographs. Letters. Curiosity won over. "Michel, who did you think it was?"

He looked down at me. I couldn't tell what his expression was.

"I won't tell anyone," I said.

He was still holding my arm. He let it go. "Okay," he said.

I waited.

"Okay," he said, again. "I thought it was my brother. My half-brother, Thomas."


	8. Chapter 8

"Your brother?"

I looked at him, certain I hadn't heard correctly. But he was nodding, his face showing no signs that he was joking.

"It's a long story," he said.

I took his hand, and said the only thing I could possibly say. "We've got time."

We ended up at a sidewalk café relatively close to Université Rousseau, where we sat with oversized cups of coffee at a table outside. I cupped my hands around mine and blew on it lightly, watching Michel add sugar to his.

I took a sip and tried not to make a face. I had never liked coffee, but I had somehow been expecting it to taste differently in Paris. Apparently not.

Michel was now stirring the sugar into his coffee. I waited a little while longer to be polite, but when that continued to yield nothing, I had to speak up. "So…" I began, in a tone that I hoped was a mix between sympathetic and inviting.

He didn't look up, but he did start talking. "My dad grew up in Paris," he said, continuing to stir his coffee. "He was a student here. At _La Sorbonne_."

I was genuinely impressed. The Sorbonne was one of the most prestigious universities in the world; it was terribly famous and very selective. "Wow," I said.

"That's how he met my mother," he continued. "She was studying abroad in Paris for her junior year, from McGill University in Canada."

He paused, seeming to be thinking something over. I waited patiently. I couldn't quite see where he was heading yet, but I knew that would come eventually.

"My father used to tell me stories about how he fell in love with my mother," he said. "I didn't love hearing about it when I was twelve years old, but when I got older it was – nice. You never want to hear all the details about your parents' relationship, but it's nice to know that they actually like each other. Love each other."

He stopped again, and for a moment I was overcome by a sudden urge to reach across the table and take his hand. But he resumed his story, and the urge passed.

"They got married two years later after they met," he went on. "My dad was already out of school by then, and my mom had just graduated from McGill. He wanted her to come to Paris but she was too attached to her family and her home. So he came to Canada."

"They must have been very in love," I said.

"They were." He stared down into his coffee cup. "I was crushed when he died. Obviously. But my mother – I can't tell you what it was like."

I remained silent, unsure of what to say. Unsure whether there was anything to say at all.

"I found out about Thomas two years ago," he said, meeting my eyes for the first time. "It was the summer after my father died. A letter came addressed to him, postmarked from France. I assumed it was an old college friend or someone who hadn't heard about the accident."

"And it was Thomas?" I ventured, almost timidly.

"No. It was his mother." He took a sip of coffee as though to reinforce himself. "Her name was Claire. I had actually heard my father mention her before." He shook his head. "She was in the same year as my father at La Sorbonne. They went out for a few months, and then she suddenly left school without telling anyone. This was the year before my mother. My father used to say he always wondered what happened to Claire, but it was lucky it all happened that way. He called it fate."

He took a pause for air, during which I finished the last of my pastry and he finished the last of his coffee. "Thomas was the reason she left school," he said. Then he laughed.

I was startled by the sound. "What?"

"I hate telling you this," he said.

"Oh," I said, taken aback.

"It's not you," he said. "You're great. I just realized how stupid this all seems when I say it out loud."

"What do you mean?"

"You know." Michel shrugged. "Long lost half-brother who I'm traveling all the way to a foreign city to find. It sounds like a soap opera cliché. It's slightly sickening even to me."

"That's why you applied to _Le Huit_?" I said with a fair amount of surprise. We hadn't had classes together, but he had seemed just as focused, just as career-minded as me. As the rest of us.

But he was shaking his head. "No. I mean, it really is an amazing opportunity. A bunch of kids would kill for it. But – " He stopped mid-sentence, as though looking for the correct way to phrase what he was about to say. "It was in the back of my mind, yes," he conceded. "A little. And over the summer…"

"Over the summer what?'

"Over the summer I got a little obsessed. It was as though once the plane ticket was booked and the bags were packed, that was my excuse to be as soap operatic, as insane as I wanted to be." He picked up his pastry but didn't take a bite. He set it back down again. "I had his full name – Thomas Neveu."

"Claire's name?" I asked, and he shook his head.

"She got married to someone else when he was five and they both took his name. She said it in the letter."

"How old is he now?"

"Twenty-one," he said. "Four years older than me. Four years before me."

I hesitated. "Have you…contacted him yet?"

Michel looked up and gave me an odd smile. I couldn't tell what he was feeling. "No," he said. "I haven't contacted him. He doesn't know I exist."

"But you thought you saw him on the street," I began, and he shook his head.

"Claire sent pictures of him," he said. "A copy of his birth certificate, too. I know what he looks like. I know what hospital he was born in. I know how much he weighed when he was born."

I remained silent. He didn't seem like he was looking for a response.

"I had his full name," he said, picking up on a loose thread from earlier in the conversation. "I tried looking him up everywhere. Claire, too. I would have looked her up under her maiden name as well if I had known it."

"Did you find anything?"

"Not much," he said. "It's a little hard to track someone down when there's an ocean between you. But I found the name of the firm his father – Claire's husband – works at. I have the office phone number."

"And you haven't called it?"

His gaze settled in on my eyes, then darted away. "No."

If I had been Greer, I would have shaken him and demanded why he hadn't called. I would have told him, in my most imploring tones, that this was a _family matter_ and besides, wouldn't he just die of curiosity otherwise? I would have finagled the number out of him and dialed it myself with impatient fingers, then handed it off to him with a firm look.

But I wasn't Greer. I was me. And I understood that family matters were often sticky, complicated affairs that couldn't be wrapped up as neatly as anyone would have hoped. I thought I knew why Michel hadn't called yet, or at least I could make an educated guess. But I asked anyway, just to hear it.

"Why not?"

"Because," he said. "I know all this random stuff about him. His birth weight. His birthday. The color of his eyes and his hair. But – "

He broke off. I knew where he was going, but I waited for him to get there.

"I don't know what he's like," Michel said.

I completed his thought for him. "And you don't want to be disappointed."

He looked at me. "Yes."

We walked back to the school together through the light fall of rain, silent for the most part. Michel had his own thoughts to keep him company. I suppose I did, too.

The others had talked of going out into the city for dinner to celebrate the first official day of classes, but we had taken long enough that I was sure they had left already. I wasn't particularly bothered. (After all, we had already gone out into the city for dinner last night to celebrate the end of orientation.)

Just as I had expected, Michel and I came back to the dorms to find them empty. However, someone had left a note on the door of the lounge with the name of the restaurant where they had all gone, encouraging us to meet them there whenever we got back.

Michel glanced at me. "What do you think?"

I shook my head. "Too tired." I smiled. "Anyway, I ate a late lunch, and the café filled me up for the night. I'm going to just go to bed. I have a morning class tomorrow."

He nodded. "I understand. Only I'm not so much too tired as too unwilling to become potentially broke within the first week." I laughed. "I'm going to eat something quick in the dining hall and then crash, too," he said.

I knew I should have offered to join him, but the truth was I really was tired – I hadn't gotten very much sleep due to the late-night conversation, and the day's classes coupled with the revelation about Michel had worn me out. In any case, the other normal Université Rousseau students had arrived by that point. He wouldn't be starved for company in the dining hall.

We were standing outside the fourth floor elevator. "Thanks," he said.

I stood on tiptoe to give him a hug. He hugged me back. "Anytime."

He stepped inside the elevator and I headed back to my own room, my mind and body thoroughly done for the day. My eyes were already closed when I fell into bed, the last thought in my mind before I drifted off to sleep one of Michel and how he was doing.

The next morning saw me in a crazed panic, waking up ten minutes late (a practically unheard of occurrence for me) and rushing to get ready for my class. I barely had time to say hello to Rodrigo in the dining hall before I was running off to the psychology building with a croissant in my hand, polishing it off just in time before I stepped into the lecture hall.

My psychology class, a huge class composed primarily of freshmen, passed without incident. I spent most of the time worried that my ink would run out in the middle of taking notes, since I had been so frazzled in the morning that I had forgotten to bring a spare pen.

It was afternoon when we spilled out of the room. Checking my watch, I found that I had an extra hour to kill before my next class: the class on stage plays that I was especially excited about.

The dorm building was a fair walk away across campus, so I decided instead to spend the time at the on-campus café. Immediately I spotted James, Rodrigo and Katarine at a corner table.

I ordered my drink (tea) and walked over to them. "Room for one more?"

James glanced up. "Hey! Yeah, yeah, sit. Did you just get out of class?"

"Psychology," I said, pulling out a chair for myself. "It was a huge class. It was really interesting, though."

"We missed you at dinner last night," Rodrigo put in, sipping from his coffee.

"Oh," I said vaguely, lifting my cup of tea. "Yes. The magazine interview lasted a lot longer than I thought."

"Oh, right," said Rodrigo. "How did it go?"

I smiled. "I got the internship. I start tomorrow."

"Well done!" said James appreciatively. Even Katarine murmured a congratulations.

"So this magazine," James went on, stirring his coffee, "what is it, exactly? Political mag? Dirty tabloid?"

"Neither of the above, and the latter is actually offensive," I returned. He laughed. I explained to them what _Coeur _was, reiterating a few phrases that Catherine Baer had used during my interview. "Basically, it's your go-to magazine if you're a sophisticated twentysomething in Paris who appreciates culture and likes to have a good time," I finished up.

"Sounds very…_modern_," James said. I raised my eyebrows at him, and he grinned. "Sounds very cool. And what is it that you'll be doing, exactly?"

"Well, I'm working under Catherine Baer and she's the reviews editor," I said. "She writes up on new restaurants, concerts, that sort of thing."

"Will you be able to go with her to these places?" asked Rodrigo.

"Doubtful," I said with a laugh. "I'm just the intern, remember? No, I'll just be working in the office."

"Making coffee?" James said teasingly.

"_No_," I said. "Answering the phone, scheduling appointments, proofreading layouts. Researching, fact-checking, that kind of thing. Oh, and assistance with 'special projects.'"

"That is the coffee-making part. It's a euphemism," Rodrigo said knowledgeably, standing up to leave. "All right. Katarine and I have a chemistry class in five minutes, so we should get going."

Katarine nodded and rose from the table as well, murmuring her goodbyes.

"See you later," I said, and turned to face James just in time to catch the lingering expression on his face as he watched Katarine and Rodrigo leave.

He swiveled back around to find me staring at him. The smitten look disappeared, to be replaced by one of guilt.

I tried not to laugh. "And what was that?"

He affected an expression of false surprise. "What was what?"

When I was younger, one of my favorite cartoon characters was Pepé le Pew on Looney Tunes, the French skunk who is devoted to what he believes is a fellow skunk. I did my best to imitate his lovestruck expression now for James. "_That_."

He winced and took a determined sip of coffee. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Katarine," I said. "James! You can tell me."

He shook his head, concentrating very hard on his coffee mug.

I looked at him more closely and realized that he actually looked painfully uncomfortable. I cringed inwardly and gave myself a silent admonishment. James and I had gotten to be fairly good friends over the week; I had no idea why he was so uncomfortable, especially over something as lighthearted and fun as a crush. Still, I let the issue go for the moment.

Later that night I called Greer. It was after dinner and I was almost ready to go to sleep, but I was insistent on keeping up with everything that was going on in Stoneybrook.

"Compared to Paris? Oh Shannon, everything's so dull that I could _die_," Greer moaned. "Need you even ask?"

I laughed at her typical Greer tone. "School's started by now, right?" I said. "How are things at SDS?"

At this, she perked up. "_Well_," she said. "There _is _this new kid in my physiology class. I think he's Italian. Very dreamy."

"What happened to Paul McGrath, he of the tacky American diner?"

"Oh, _Paul_," she said, her voice taking on a decisively derisive tone. "Shannon, don't make me laugh. No, Paul is definitely over." She began talking at length about the Italian transfer, making a few well-placed physiology jokes along the way.

I laughed. "One of the other _Le Huit _students is Italian," I said. "His name is Niccolò."

"Niccolò," Greer echoed. "God, even his _name _sounds delicious. Oh my Lord, I've just had the most fantastic idea. Listen, you must snap him up straight away. I'll ask out on my physiology boy and that way we'll both have two stunning relationships with two stunning Europeans. Even if yours is actually _in _Europe and mine is in dull, dull Stoneybrook. Oh, let's do it!"

"Greer," I said, laughing. "It _is _a fantastic idea, but also totally ridiculous. I don't think so."

"_Shannon_," she said. "All right. _Stand _in the way of true romance. And speaking of which, how is your Canadian towel boy these days? Have you got any more tales of awkward encounters for me?"

"Fortunately no," I said. "Actually…I think we've become pretty good friends."

"Friends," Greer repeated with a sniff. "Well, stay that way. I don't want you wasting yourself on someone so local. Come on, tell me, who else is there?"

I considered. "Well, I've made friends with James too," I said.

"And where is James from?"

"Australia."

"Not nearly as good as Italy. But I suppose an improvement. At least it's more than an hour's plane ride away. What do you think?"

I started laughing. "What do I _think_?" I said. "Anyway, it's a no go. He's very nice and all, but no. In any case, he has a crush on another girl. He was nearly pining away at lunch when she and Rodrigo left."

"Rodrigo?" Greer said, pouncing eagerly on the new shred of information. "And who is that?"

And so it went. Finally Greer had to leave, announcing that her brother had the audacity to want to use the phone to call his girlfriend. I ended the call, smiling.

Next I dialed Anna's number, since I hadn't spoken to her in days. She was much better than Greer in informing me about news at home, although since she went to Stoneybrook High I couldn't quiz her for information about SDS.

I had just finished telling her about the Théâtre du Châtelet when she said, apologetically, that she had to go. "Sorry, but there's an orchestra concert tonight and I have to get there early," she said.

"Oh, of course," I said. "I'll talk to you later."

"Definitely. I'm so happy that you're having such a good time," she said. "I miss you, though."

"I miss you too!" I said. "Good luck at the concert."

I hung up the phone and stared at it for a few moments. There was one more call to Stoneybrook that I knew I should make, and yet I wasn't sure if I had the energy in me to make it.

I told myself sternly that I was being ridiculous and definitely immature. That it was my responsibility to call. This in mind, I reached for the phone a third time and dialed my home number.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang. But no one picked up.

* * *

_A/N_: I just wanted to say a huge thank you to everyone who's been reviewing. I really only started this story to keep myself entertained through the summer, so it means a lot that people are actually reading and caring. Thank you! 


	9. Chapter 9

"_Coeur_ magazine, Catherine Baer's office. Yes…certainly. Yes, I'll be sure she gets that message. Thank you for calling."

I set the phone receiver back down and tapped out a quick memo on the keyboard before I could forget the details. I sent it as an email to Catherine, who had been enclosed in her office all day. By now, I knew better than to interrupt her during her work by walking in.

It had been a week since I had begun my internship, and contrary to James's belief, I had done much more than pour coffee. My main task was answering the phone and sorting out Catherine's schedule; I spent the rest of my time doing odd jobs here and there, such as reading over copy and researching restaurants.

The office door flung open and Catherine herself strode out. I looked up immediately.

"This message about the reception tonight," she said in her imperious tones. "Who was this from?"

"Oh!" I was startled. "Did I forget to include that? I'm so sorry. Uh, it was from Jean Rouche. From the art gallery."

She sighed. "Well, I cannot possibly go. I have the new jazz ensemble concert tonight. Call him back and apologize for me."

"I will. Again, so sorry, Catherine."

She gave me a brief nod and swept back into her office. I picked up the phone and hit redial. "Hello, is this Jean Rouche? Yes, I'm calling on behalf of Catherine Baer…no, unfortunately not…she regrets it too. Have a good day."

I met Michel outside the building at the end of the day. By this point I had grown comfortable enough with the city that I was fine walking to and from _Coeur_ by myself, but he always ended up escorting me nonetheless. Today I found him playing an old tune on the harmonica that I didn't recognize.

I walked in his direction. "Tell the truth. Do you do that purely to annoy me?"

I actually found his ridiculous attachment to that harmonica somewhat endearing, but there was no need to let him know that. In any case, I was fairly certain he knew anyway.

His only response was an enigmatic smile. "Would you care to place a request?"

I fell into step beside him and we began walking. "Like a Rolling Stone," I said.

Michel raised his eyebrows. "A Dylan fan."

I smiled. "Not as such. I just think he's interesting."

"A succinct, yet accurate summary," he said. "How was working with the dragon queen today?"

From my descriptions of Catherine Baer, Michel had somewhat gotten the idea that she's some sort of ultra-domineering, control freak of a boss. She isn't, of course. Besides, I've worked under much more overbearing leaders. Even ones who were tiny, brunette, and thirteen years old.

"Don't call her that," I said, reprovingly. "I do like her. She's an interesting person."

"Is that your word of the day?"

I laughed despite myself. "She is. Though maybe not Bob Dylan interesting."

We drifted onto the Université Rousseau campus, where there were several students spilled across the grounds. As we passed a group sitting next to the fountain, one of them – a tall, pretty brunette – waved at Michel. He waved back.

I tilted my head. "You're popular," I said.

He smiled. "She's in my political science class. Her name is Chloe."

"I'm sure she's charming," I said.

"Well, she's interesting, anyway."

That made me laugh again. "Most versatile word in any language," I said.

"Possibly," he agreed.

We continued walking. At least twice more, a random Université Rousseau student would acknowledge Michel with a wave or a nod of the head. "How do you know these people?" I said.

"Classes," he replied. "Or they're in our dorm. Come on, we live with these people. Haven't you been talking to anyone?"

I shook my head. Outside of the other _Le Huit_ students, I hadn't made much of an effort to get to know anyone else on campus. When I wasn't in class, working for Catherine took up most of my time, and whatever time not spent at _Coeur_ was spent studying or working on my applications. This _was _an academic program, after all, and college deadlines weren't so far off.

We reached our dorm building and swiped our IDs (by this time I was on nodding terms with the security guard, at least). "The lounge?" I said to Michel. We and the others had taken to crashing there at the end of the day. I would typically be bent over my laptop or a textbook while everyone else talked or sometimes studied as well.

But Michel was shaking his head. "Actually," he said, "Iliana was talking about a couple of upperclassmen having a party tonight in their apartment just off campus. We were talking about having an early dinner and going over to see."

"Oh," I said, unsettled. For some reason, parties had rarely factored into my image of college, and not at all into my image of Université Rousseau. But that was ridiculous, I knew. It was a college campus, it came with the territory.

"So, what do you think?" Michel said.

I checked my watch. It was five-thirty. "When is the party?" I asked.

"Seven," he answered.

The elevator doors opened and we stepped out onto our familiar fourth floor. "Maybe," I said. "I don't know. I have a lot of – "

"Shannon! Michel!"

It was Iliana, and Niccolò was right behind her. "Good, you are back," Iliana said, clasping my hands. "We're going to eat in the dining hall and walk over to the apartment together. Shannon, are you coming?"

"I'm not sure," I said, as diplomatically as I could.

Iliana's face fell. "But you must!" she said. "We are all going!"

"It will be fun," Niccolò said from behind her. I almost blushed looking at him, remembering my conversation with Greer.

"Maybe," I said. "The thing is, I have a lot of things to do tonight – "

Iliana threw her hands up in the air. "It is a Friday night!" she exclaimed.

I looked at Michel for support. Unfortunately, he looked more amused than anything else.

"Still," I said. "I haven't even started on my University of Chicago application, and they have completely different essay prompts from other schools. It's already September, you know." When Iliana opened her mouth as though to object, I quickly added, "But I will eat dinner with you guys. And maybe I'll stop by the party for an hour or two.

Iliana still didn't look wholly appeased, but she accepted. "All right," she said, albeit reluctantly. "Meet us in the dining hall in five minutes, then."

I disappeared into my room to change out of my work clothes. I kicked off my beige heels and slipped out of my pencil skirt, changing into a pair of black pants and my sleeveless red blouse. Since we were going to be walking apparently across campus, I draped a coat over my arm to ward off the cold.

Nearly everyone else was already gathered at a table when I finally made it into the dining hall. Rodrigo was still loading up on food at the buffet; I grabbed the top plate from a stack and joined him.

He noticed me and gave me his easy smile. "Hello," he said. "Are you coming to the party with us tonight?"

I nodded. "Iliana more or less coerced me into it," I said, piling a helping of salad onto my plate.

"That's not surprising," he said with a laugh. "It should be good fun, though."

"Oh, I'm sure it will," I said, though I wasn't sure at all. It wasn't that I was such a school-focused bore that I didn't know how to have fun. I liked to have a good time as much as the next person, but the party sounded like one of those typical cheap beer-infused extravaganzas where no one knew anyone that I would sooner miss. Still, I would just put in an appearance and leave.

Rodrigo and I joined the others at the table; he took a seat in between James and Annabel, and I set my tray down at a spot next to Michel. "Hey," he said.

"…in the bookstore," Iliana was saying. "Yes, they split the flat with two other students…"

I slid into my seat. "What are we talking about?" I asked Michel.

"Iliana's talking about the guys who are holding the party," he said. "Two juniors she ran into on campus."

I tried not to wince. A random invitation from a chance encounter. The party was sounding less and less appealing.

We finished dinner in a relative hurry, thanks to Iliana prodding all of us along. I slipped my coat on as we stepped outside into the evening; the weather wasn't unbearable, but cold enough that I was grateful for the extra layer.

Ahead of me, Katarine and Rodrigo were talking. James sidled up alongside them and cut in on the conversation, and I had to suppress a smile.

Michel appeared at my side as we walked up to the door. "I must say that you look less than thrilled," he said.

I turned to him and pulled my most sour-looking face possible. "What? With this expression?"

"Yes. Exactly. Wear that face and you'll be a hit."

I was about to make a self-deprecating remark when the door swung open and a brown-haired boy appeared in the doorframe, ushering us in. Iliana kissed him on the cheek as she went past him into the flat.

Some alternative techno remix was playing as we entered. From what I could tell, the party had clearly been going on for awhile. People were milling through the rooms and standing in clumps, all of them unrecognizable faces.

The temperature was beginning to get to me. I unbuttoned my coat and, unwilling to simply throw it in a corner somewhere and trust it would still be there when I came back for it, slung it over my arm. I turned to say something to Michel, but I found that he had been swept away by the crowd.

I wandered through the room, feeling slightly self-conscious as I pushed my way through unfamiliar people. I spotted Niccolò and Iliana on the other side of the room, but they were caught up in conversation with a small group of other people.

"I like your necklace," a voice said next to me. I turned to find a pretty brunette girl sitting on the arm of a couch, sipping from a plastic cup.

I was wearing a silver heart-and-arrow necklace on a simple chain, a past birthday gift from Greer. My fingers automatically reached up to clasp it. "Thank you," I said. "My friend gave it to me when she was in France last year."

She raised her eyebrows. "In France?"

I smiled. "I'm actually from America," I said, and briefly explained the _Le Huit _program.

"Really," she said. "Well, would you like a drink?" She nudged the dark-haired boy sitting next to her on the couch. "André, go get her something."

An image of my mother laughing and holding a champagne flute to her lips at one of the Rossums' parties flashed through my head. I almost cringed. "I don't want anything," I said. "I mean – no, thank you. I don't drink."

"You don't?" She looked at me with skeptical eyes.

I remembered how commonplace alcohol was in Europe and tried to think of something to say. Luckily at that moment, the shrill sound of my cell phone rang out, offering me an escape route. "Would you excuse me," I said, standing up. I fished my phone out of my pocket and flipped it open. "Hello?"

"Hello, Shannon? This is Catherine Baer."

"Catherine?" I said, surprised. She had never called me outside of work before. "Hi. What's going on?"

She began talking, but I could barely hear over the music. I put one hand over my ear to block out the noise. "I'm sorry, but could you hold on for just a moment?" I said into the phone. I wound my way through the clumps of people until I finally reached the door. I stepped outside.

"Sorry about that," I said. "So what can I do for you?"

"The jazz ensemble I was supposed to review tonight," she said, sounding agitated. "An emergency has come up and I'm unable to make it. I would simply replace the story, but the manager has been particularly insistent and he has several connections. It's important that someone from the magazine be there."

Her words were slowly coming together in my mind. "Do you mean…" I began.

"I understand this is quite a lot more than what I originally expected of you, but if you could simply make an appearance at the concert, that would be sufficient," Catherine interrupted me. "You won't be taking over my piece. At most, you will need to speak with the manager for a brief while on behalf of me. Are you available?"

I barely took a second to think about it. "Absolutely," I said.

"Wonderful," she said. "I am still in the office, but I really must leave soon. Come by quickly so I can give you the information."

"I'll be there as soon as I can." I clicked off the phone, amazed at my luck. Even if I wouldn't be officially covering it in a journalistic capacity, I was thrilled to be attending the jazz concert. Not only for the artistic appreciation aspect, but it was the first time I would be mingling with official people on behalf of the magazine. Inwardly, I was pleased Catherine trusted me with such a task.

I opened the door and stepped back into the apartment, scanning the party for signs of the other _Le Huit_ students. My eyes fell upon Michel standing at the edge of the room, talking to a small group of people I didn't know.

"Michel!" I made my way across the room and tapped him on the shoulder.

"Oh, there you are," he said. "I couldn't find you. Here, this is – "

I cut him off mid-sentence. "I'm sorry, Michel, but I have to go. Will you tell the others for me?"

"You have to go?" he repeated. "Why?"

"Catherine from my internship called. She needs me to go to some concert tonight."

"Right now?"

"As soon as possible, yes."

"Why?"

"She said that some kind of emergency came up, and someone from the magazine needs to be there," I said. "I have to semi-fill in for her."

He looked vaguely disappointed, but he nodded. "I'll go with you," he said.

"What?" I said in surprise. "But you can't go in, you aren't part of the magazine!"

"You can't walk there alone at night," he countered.

I pressed my lips together. "I don't want you to miss the party because of me," I said. Unlike me, he seemed to be mingling fine with the other people.

He shrugged. "I don't mind."

I shook my head. "I only have to walk to the _Coeur_ building, and then Catherine will probably give me a ride," I said. "And I've walked there several times before. And anyway, that means you would end up walking alone at night after you drop me off. I'll be fine. Don't worry."

He looked like he was about to say something to counter that, but he let it go. "Call a taxi," he said instead. "All right? Then I won't worry."

I had to admit that that was probably the most reasonable solution. "Okay," I said.

He squeezed my hand. "See you back at the dorms tonight," he said. "And have fun."

Catherine was outside of the building when my taxi pulled up, stalking down the length of the sidewalk in her spiked heels while holding a lit cigarette between her fingers. "There you are," she said as I stepped out of the cab. "At last. Come."

She beckoned me into the building, stabbing out her cigarette and flicking the remains into a nearby trash can. I followed, quickening my footsteps to match her speed.

We entered her office and she began moving at rapid pace, gathering things together and pulling things out of her oversized bag. "I have to leave immediately. Thank goodness you are here," she said. "Now listen." She pushed a notepad across the desk in my direction. "I am going to tell you what you need to know for tonight. Write this down."

I flipped the notepad open and quickly snatched up a stray pen from the desk. "Okay," I said. "I'm listening."

"The manager of this ensemble is named Gabriel Bataille," she informed me, opening a magazine on the desk and thumbing briskly through it. She came to a stop at a particular page and pointed to a photograph. "This is him. Remember his face so you can recognize him when you see him."

"Manager, Gabriel Bataille," I murmured as I wrote it down. "Okay."

"Introduce yourself as my assistant," she instructed me. "Apologize to him on my behalf for not being able to be there. Make small talk. Be pleasant."

"I will," I promised, wondering if she actually expected me to be _un_pleasant.

She fished around in her purse and pulled out some money. "Here is fare for the taxi ride," she said, pressing it into my hands.

"Oh no, I couldn't – " I began to object.

"It's no trouble at all," Catherine cut me off, ignoring my protests. She pulled open a desk drawer and rummaged around until she found what she was looking for. "Press pass," she said, handing it to me. "You may have difficulty getting in. Tell them that you are there representing Catherine Baer for _Coeur _magazine. If you have any trouble, you may call my cell phone. Let me give you the number."

I slipped the press pass into my purse and wrote her cell phone number down in my notepad. "All right," I said.

"Oh yes, and it's likely that Gabriel will want to introduce you to the ensemble members after the performance," Catherine said, returning to the magazine. She flipped to a different page and jabbed her finger at a new photograph. "Do your best with their names. Trumpets, Maurice Pinon, Nathalie Brunet – "

"Okay," I said, scribbling on the notepad.

" – trombone, Joseph Tribout – "

I wrote that down too.

" – alto saxophone, Thomas Neveu – "

I nearly dropped my pen.


	10. Chapter 10

"Pick up," I murmured as the subdued ring of the cell phone sounded in my ear. "Pick up, pick up, pick up…"

"Mademoiselle?" The cab driver glanced over his shoulder to look at me in the backseat. "Did you say something?"

The phone clicked on over to voicemail and I snapped it shut in my palm. "No, nothing," I said brightly, adopting a normal tone of voice. "How far are we from the venue?"

"Only ten minutes," he replied. "Not to worry. You won't be late."

Ten minutes. Ten minutes until I was at the venue, out on my first official outside assignment for Catherine and _Coeur_. Ten minutes until I was in the same room as Thomas Neveu. Ten minutes for Michel to _pick up his cell phone_.

Once, Greer had told me never to call a boy more than once within a twenty-four hour window. It was deeply unattractive, she claimed, for a boy to glance at his phone and find a plethora of missed calls from someone. She said that if a girl was absolutely compelled to call more than once, she should at least mask herself with some dignity by calling from a different phone number. Multiple calls just smacked of neediness and clinginess and everything else pathetic.

I certainly didn't put any stock into Greer's advice now. Once the cab driver turned his attention back to the road ahead, I flipped open my cell phone again and dialed Michel's number.

_Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. _"This is Michel DuMoulin. Leave a message if it's important. Leave something entertaining if it's not."

I rolled my eyes at his voicemail and hung up without leaving a message. I slipped the phone back into my bag, deciding that it was a hopeless cause.

That was fine, I decided. I would meet Thomas after the concert. I wouldn't tell him anything, of course; it wasn't my place to do so. I would try to get his contact information somehow (if there was no other option I could always pretend I needed it for a future _Coeur_ article, although I sincerely hoped I wouldn't have to lie). Tonight, when I got back to the university, I would turn it over to Michel, and he could do with it whatever he liked.

I settled back into my seat, calmer now that I had mapped out a proper course of action in my head. It was a good plan. It was the sensible thing to do.

But a new thought blossomed in the back of my head, cutting through and pushing its way to the forefront. Michel had had Thomas's father's office number for months. He could have found a way to get in touch long by now. It wasn't, I knew, lack of contact information that was keeping him from reaching Thomas. It was something else, and I knew what it was.

"_I don't know what he's like," Michel said._

_I completed his thought for him. "And you don't want to be disappointed."_

I stared at my hands. I certainly didn't have the right to make this sort of decision for Michel. That was clear.

And yet —

Suddenly I felt the jerk of the brakes underneath me. "Here we are," the cab driver announced, pulling both the car and my thoughts to a halt.

I shook back my hair and reached for my wallet to pay him, glad to have my thoughts interrupted. "Here you go," I said, handing him the money. "Thanks very much."

He took it and nodded at me. "You have a good night."

"You too."

I stepped out of the taxi, slinging my bag over my shoulder, and surveyed my surroundings. Somehow when I had learned that I would be covering one of Catherine's assignments, I had envisioned some kind of shockingly glamorous red carpet, A-list affair complete with clicking photographers and sweeping evening gowns.

Of course that was silly. What lay before me was a regular sidewalk club, a line stretching from the entrance but otherwise fairly unremarkable.

I started to like the club immediately when I entered it. The atmosphere inside was very warm and low-key, which I appreciated, but there was a undercurrent of excitement running through it. Tables sat spread throughout the room, the bar stretched out on one end and the stage looming up from the other.

The first thing I checked for was whether I was under- or overdressed, one of those stupid societal fears drilled into me by my mother. I hadn't had time to change between now and the party, but thankfully I fit right in.

Some people were already seated at the tables, while others were milling throughout the room. I remembered the instructions Catherine had given me. "Mingle. Beforehand and afterwards," she had said. "It is good for the magazine."

My watch informed me that it was twelve minutes until the concert officially started. I decided to get a drink.

"A sparkling water, please," I told the bartender. He nodded and slid one across the bar to me. I paid for it, feeling a slight twinge of self-consciousness. All around me people were walking around with cups in their hands, and I was certain that none of them were filled with plain water.

Still, I gripped my sparkling water and walked over to the table area, scanning the room for somewhere to sit. Locating a spot with a nice view of the stage, I headed toward it.

A thin woman dressed entirely in black appeared out of virtually nowhere, a martini glass in one hand. "I am sorry, this table is taken," she said, staring me down. Combined, her stare and her voice could turn my sparkling water to ice.

I stepped back. "I'm so sorry, I didn't know," I said.

She glared at me for a moment before shrugging. "That is fine," she said, and continued to wait, clearly for me to remove myself from her sight.

I appeased her by backing off, silently amazed by her audacity. Michel's words flashed briefly through my head. _You apologize a lot._

But it wasn't worth fighting over. I decided to just take a seat at the bar, partly to avoid the awkwardness of sharing a table with someone even half as unpleasant as she had been. I spied an open chair near the end of the bar, and slid into it in relief.

"Can I take this seat?"

I turned to identify the voice as belonging to a tall, dark-haired man who looked to be in his early twenties. He leaned with his elbows against the bar. "You're welcome to it," I answered.

He smiled and sat down on my left. "Sparkling water, please," he told the bartender, and turned to me. "Don't worry, you will have it back soon. I only need a drink."

I smiled back and was about to make a comment about his choice of drink when my eyes fell on a tattered book peeking out from a pocket of his messenger bag. "Gabriel Garcia Marquez!" I exclaimed.

He followed my gaze and lay a hand on the book. "You are a fan?" he asked.

"Oh, yes," I said. "He's one of my favorite authors."

The bartender appeared with his sparkling water and he paid for it, rising from the chair. "Mine, too," he said. "I've only just begun this one, though. Pray it is as good as _Love in the Time of Cholera_."

"It is." I smiled at him and he tipped his water at me before disappearing into the crowd.

A few moments later the lights dimmed, and I found myself squinting as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. The stage lit up, drawing my attention, and a woman's voice rang out through the club to announce the ensemble.

I scooted to the edge of my seat to catch a glimpse of the stage. The musicians were arranged according to instrument. Thomas, I remembered from Catherine's briefing, played alto saxophone.

I scanned the stage from left to right, but unfortunately, I was too far away to identify anyone properly. Besides, the faces in the magazine photograph Catherine had shown me were tiny and blurred, and I wasn't certain I would be able to match them to the person.

Finally concluding that my efforts were futile, I leaned back against the bar and soaked in the sound of their music. Jazz music wasn't one of my areas of expertise, but I could still enjoy and appreciate it.

The band played on and the concert faded to an end, marking intermission. People began rising, and a steady stream of conversation began running through the club. I slid off my seat and headed for the bathrooms, hoping to find a quiet place where I could call Michel again.

When I flipped open my cell phone, I found he had called me during the first half of the concert. "It's Michel. You called a few times but didn't leave a message. Let me know what's going on and whether you're lying in an abandoned ditch…by the way, that's a joke – you're not allowed under any circumstances to be in a ditch. See you tonight."

Sadly when I called him back, I reached his voicemail yet again. This time I left a message, fighting my impatience. "Hi, this is Shannon," I said. "I have news you _need _to hear. Call me."

I hung up, hoping he would get the message in time before the concert ended. Turning to leave, I bumped straight into a portly man dressed in a suit.

"Oh!" I said, stumbling backward in surprise. "I'm so sorry, I didn't see you."

He nodded at me. "Not to worry," he replied in a booming sort of voice.

Stepping back, I was suddenly seized by a feeling of recognition. It took a couple of seconds for me to process it and pair his face to his photo, but then I realized that this was the ensemble manager I was meant to be talking to for Catherine. "Sorry," I said, "but by any chance, are you Gabriel Bataille?"

"I am!" he said. He peered down at me. "And who might you be?"

I straightened up almost unconsciously. "I'm Shannon Kilbourne," I said, extending my hand. "I'm assistant to Catherine Baer, from _Coeur_. I'm afraid that she couldn't make it tonight due to an outside emergency, but she sent me in her place."

"Really!" he said, shaking my hand. "Well, that's a shame. Very good to meet you, Miss Kilbourne. Enjoying the concert?"

"Very much," I answered honestly. "I'm not terribly familiar with jazz, but they do seem extremely talented."

"Oh, they are!" he boomed. "They are. You tell Ms. Baer that." He pointed a finger at me. "Come find me after the show. I'll introduce you to the musicians themselves."

"I'd be honored," I was about to say, but he had already walked right past. Smiling wryly, I walked back to the bar and took my seat again.

The second half of the concert began but I could only watch half-heartedly, my mind split between watching out of politeness and wondering how on earth to deal with the Thomas Neveu situation after the show. Almost subconsciously, I reached into my bag and laid a hand on my phone.

To my surprise, it was vibrating. I pulled it open and looked at the call display. _Michel DuMoulin_. I shot a furtive glance around me and, once assured that no one was paying a bit of attention to what I was doing, flipped it open and held it to my ear. "Hold on," I murmured into the phone, and slid off my chair.

I walked quickly past enraptured audience members into the bathroom, which, thankfully, was empty. "Okay, I can talk," I said into the phone.

"Finally," came Michel's voice. "Where are you?

"_Not _in a ditch," I said. "At the concert. I have such big news and you need to hear it."

"Evident from your multiple phone calls," he replied. "My phone is almost out of battery, so talk fast. What's going on?"

"Sit down," I instructed him.

"Is this some sort of twisted American high school initiation ritual?"

"No. Are you sitting down?"

"_Oui_, _mademoiselle_."

"Okay," I said. "You are not going to believe – "

The door banged open and a woman entered the bathroom, her heels clicking against the tile. She stopped and zeroed in on me immediately, her eyes glaring at me under a heavy coat of lurid eyeshadow.

I squashed the urge to cringe. It was the woman who had forced me out of my table. "Hello," I began, until the door banged open once more and another person came in right behind her.

I almost dropped my phone. The second person came in the form of a man in a black t-shirt and jeans, whose hands were stealthily roaming down the swathing fabric of her dress. They immediately halted once he caught sight of me.

"Hello?" Michel was saying over the phone. "Shannon? Are you still there?"

Now I was fighting the urge to both cringe and laugh. "I'm still here," I said into the phone.

The woman cleared her throat.

"Hold on a second, Michel," I said into the phone. I covered the mouthpiece. "I'm sorry," I said politely, "do you want anything?"

She glared at me, her gaze imperious. "Yes," she said.

I was amazed by her boldness. Obviously, she was waiting for me to get out of the bathroom and leave them to…their antics.

I was _dying _to tell her to shove her stilettos down her throat, but my non-confrontational nature won out. I met her eyes in a disgusted stare to show just what I thought of her, and swept out the door. To be honest, I was glad to be out of there.

"I'm back," I announced to Michel.

"Finally," he replied. "What happened?"

I rolled my eyes as I switched the phone from one ear to the other. "You're really better off not knowing," I said. "Anyway. Still sitting down?"

No reply.

I frowned and held the phone away from my ear, looking at the screen. "Michel?" I said into the mouthpiece.

The only answer that came through was an incessant beeping and a message that flashed across the screen: CALL ENDED. His battery had died out.

I was strongly tempted to curse, but my better nature held firm. Instead I closed the phone and returned it to my bag, telling myself that I would simply stick to my original Plan A. Meet Thomas Neveu, get his contact information, pass it on to Michel. End of plan.

The concert was winding down by the time I returned to my seat, the ensemble playing the last chords of the last song. I applauded politely at the end, then jumped to my feet to look for Gabriel.

I found him standing at the edge of the stage, in the middle of conversation with several people at once. I was about to shrink away to let him finish talking when he noticed me.

"You over there!" he said. "Miss…"

"Kilbourne," I filled in for him.

"Right, right," he said. "Well now, come here and meet these fine people."

I joined the group at the stage, a polite smile fastened in place. The people surrounding Gabriel were, I found, behind-the-scenes workers as well as other critics and journalists.

"You'll meet the ensemble members in a moment, I expect, they're all just…oh, here they are now!" Gabriel lifted a hand and waved some people over.

They came drifting toward us in a loose pack. To my surprise, I recognized one of them straightaway.

"I know you," he said to me as they approached.

I smiled. "Gabriel Garcia Marquez by the bar."

"That's right!"

Gabriel looked back and forth at us, sizing up the situation. "I see you're already well-acquainted with our saxophonist!" he said. "How have you met Thomas?"

_Thomas_.

Somehow my polite smile remained perfectly in place, masking my surprise. I faltered only for a second before answering. "We, um," I said. "We met by the bar just before the concert began."

"The bar!" Gabriel repeated in mock accusatory tones, turning his attention to Thomas. "Right before a show, Neveu?"

Thomas said something in reply, but I let the stream of conversation flow right over my head. I was too busy looking him over, trying to find any resemblance to Michel. I couldn't help myself. He was tall, like Michel, but that was all. His eyes were green where Michel's were blue; his hair was light brown where Michel's was dark, bordering on black. I decided that Thomas had taken after his mother, or perhaps Michel had.

"…but the concert's over now, so you're all well licensed to do so," Gabriel was saying. "End the night right. Would you care to join us, Miss Kilbourne?"

I snapped out of my reverie and tried to focus on the conversation. "What?" I said politely. "I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

"We're planning on going out for drinks," he said, indicating the jazz band and the other workers and journalists crowded around the stage. "Would you to care to join us?"

I automatically opened my mouth to politely decline, but then I closed it. I still had to find a way to get Thomas's contact information to pass on to Michel. And I was certain it was perfectly safe; after all, there would be several people around and I had enough taxi fare for the ride home. "Absolutely," I said.

We ended up at a place near the club. I cornered my way into a seat right next to Thomas, wondering how to approach him.

Luckily, he solved that problem for me. He turned to me and said, "What have you read of Marquez's?"

This was a topic I could jump into easily. "A teacher of mine recommended _One Hundred Years of Solitude_ to me a few years ago, and I fell in love with it," I said eagerly. "I have to admit I was slogging a bit through the first few pages, but by the end it was honestly one of the best books I've read. I know it's cliché to say, but his writing is magical."

He nodded. "_Love in the Time of Cholera _is the only book of his I've read, but I very much enjoyed it," he said. "Actually, _One Hundred Years of Solitude _is the one I'm reading right now."

"Oh, you'll love it," I said. "It's really the one he's most known for – not that that's important at all, of course. I suppose it's similar to _Love in the Time of Cholera _in that…"

We talked for a long while about books. He asked me what other authors I enjoyed, and I listed a few of them for him: F. Scott Fitzgerald, Jane Austen, Oscar Wilde. He recommended Haruki Murakami to me, which led into a discussion about translations and how well they held up, and how much could be lost in the translation. I told him that I was reading French authors in their original language now that I was fluent in French, which of course led to me explaining that I was actually from America. I told him about _Le Huit _and what it meant to me, about my aspirations for my future and career.

At one point in the evening, he offered me his wineglass. I shook my head out of reflex. "Oh, no thank you," I said.

"I insist," he said.

I hesitated. I almost declined. But then it occurred to me that I was in Paris, France. The same Paris, France where Hemingway and the rest of the Lost Generation had sat in cafés writing their masterpieces. I wasn't the same Shannon Kilbourne. "Sure," I said.

The rest of the night floated by in a wave of conversation. It was only at the very end of the night, when everyone was getting up to leave, that I remembered what I had originally come for.

I could have hit myself for forgetting. I rose from my seat, looking to see where Thomas had got to.

He was standing near the exit, saying goodbye to someone I had been introduced to but whose name had escaped my memory. When he saw me coming, he smiled.

"Shannon," he said. "Good. I was looking for you."

"Me too," I said. Quickly I searched my brain and mentally seized hold of the excuse that I had thought of in the taxi, of pretending to need his number for a _Coeur_ article. I opened my mouth.

"Listen, Shannon, I was wondering," he said, before I could say anything. He looked very sincere all of a sudden. His eyes were awfully green.

I closed my mouth. "Yes?"

"I hope this isn't forward of me," he said. "But I was wondering if you would like to have dinner with me some time this week."

I stared.

A thousand thoughts ran through my brain, swirling together in a blur of possibly alcohol-induced confusion. I lost focus of my original mission. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I wondered if I was maybe a little too tipsy. Perhaps I could blame that for the answer I gave.

"Absolutely," I said.


	11. Chapter 11

I woke up the next morning in a haze of confusion. 

Bits and pieces of last night's dream still played across the back of my mind like a film reel on a theater screen, stealing me from reality and pulling me under. Michel and I were standing in the Rossums' dining room while my mother tipped back her head and laughed, holding a champagne flute filled to the brim.

Michel glared at me. "See what you've done?" he said. "See what you've done to your mother?"

I tried to answer but couldn't. A pounding sensation filled my head, blocking out any attempts at rationality. My mother kept laughing, kept sipping her champagne while Michel glared and I stood, helpless.

It took a few moments for me to become fully awake, and another few moments to recognize the pounding as someone knocking on my bedroom door. I struggled into a sitting position, rubbing the sleep out of my eyes. Scenes from the dream flashed briefly through my head. "Come in," I called, half-yawning as I spoke.

The door opened and Michel appeared in the frame. "Good morning to you," he said, surveying me.

I was certain that I looked as far from presentable as a person could get. My hair was mussed, my clothes were crumpled, and a headache lingered on in my head. "Good morning," I said, covering my mouth as I yawned again. "What are you doing here?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Did you forget? Your big news from last night."

"Oh," I said blankly, rubbing my forehead.

He leaned against the doorframe with his arms folded, looking at me curiously. "I waited up for you, but you must have gotten in without me noticing," he said. "So, what's the news?"

I massaged my forehead, attempting without avail to somehow rub the pain out of my temples. "News," I repeated, trying to remember.

"Yes," he said. He looked faintly amused. "Should I give you a few minutes?"

And then the events of last night finally clicked into place in my sleepy mind. The jazz concert. My futile attempts to reach Michel. Meeting Thomas. Drinks after the show…Thomas asking me to dinner.

"_Oh_," I said, and was overcome by a strong urge to bury myself under the covers.

"Yes, _oh_," he said wryly. "Want to explain?"

I managed to resist the urge, but I did pull the covers up higher to my shoulders. My mind was racing now, trying to figure out what I should say to him. "Um..." I said.

Mentally, I ran through everything that had gone on last night. I felt a brief flash of panic as I recalled accepting Thomas's dinner invitation. I couldn't possibly explain that to Michel.

"Um," I began again, running a hand through my hair. "Actually, I have sort of a headache right now. I'm so sorry, but can we talk later?"

At least that wasn't a lie. I genuinely did have a headache, and I suspected that it was growing worse by the moment.

"Of course," said Michel, the amused expression on his face turning into one of concern. He came toward me. "Do you want me to get you anything? Water?"

I shook my head, one hand pressed against my temples. "No, thank you," I said. "I think I just need to rest until my physics class this afternoon. I'll…I'll talk to you later tonight, okay?"

"Sure. I have to get to class, anyway." Michel gave me a reassuring squeeze of the arm. "Feel better."

"I will."

As soon as he left I collapsed against my pillows and shrank down under the covers, pulling the comforter over me. I reviewed the situation in my head. Yes, I had met Michel's half-brother last night. Yes, he was smart and talented and yes, I had enjoyed talking to him. Yes, I had had a little wine. Yes, I had agreed to go on a date with him. No, Michel had no idea.

As I continued to agonize over it all, the thought occurred to me that perhaps it wasn't as big a deal as I was making it out to be in my head. What reason did Michel have to be upset? We were all adults (or a few months away from it in my case) in this situation.

I squashed that thought within seconds. It was a stupid question. No rational person would agree to go out on a date with her friend's half-brother – not when they hadn't even yet met, not even when the friend wasn't even sure he _wanted _to meet him. It was colossally insensitive and an undoubtedly stupid move.

It took me about ten minutes to finally crawl out of bed. I trudged down the hall to the bathroom, feeling extremely unenthused at the prospect of attending class in a few hours (which was, for me, incredibly uncharacteristic).

I began to feel better under the hot spray of the shower. By the time I stepped out, wrapped in a fluffy white towel, I was practically a human being again.

I dressed quickly in a cardigan and jeans: a casual outfit, because I wasn't working today. I tucked my things into my bag and gave myself my typical morning once-over in the mirror.

I looked together. I looked like myself. I left the room.

I found James and Katarine at a table in the dining hall for our usual morning breakfast when everyone else was away at class. I smiled when I saw them, remembering catching James's lovestruck expression on the day at the café. Knowing what I did about his crush, I hesitated as I approached the table with my tray. I wondered if I should exercise some tact and leave them to themselves.

But James noticed me before I could make a decision and waved. "You're late," he said. "We're almost done. We were nearly going to leave."

"Oh, I'm sorry!" I said, setting down my tray next to Katarine. "You two should go. I don't mind eating breakfast by myself."

He shook his head. "No, it's fine," he said. "I have fifteen minutes until my economics class, anyway."

"And we have half an hour before our physics class," Katarine said. It was odd as always hearing her speak, it being so rare. Her voice was mellifluous, like chords being played on a piano.

I smiled at her. I still didn't know her very well after all these weeks, but I thought I could see why James liked her. She was smart, after all, and pretty in a piercing sort of way.

"So what happened to you last night?" said James, crumpling his straw wrapper. "You weren't there when we all walked back from the party."

"Oh," I said, not wanting to offer too much detail about the time I had had last night. "Um, I had to leave. Something to do with my internship."

"That's too bad," James said. "It wasn't a bad party."

I only shrugged. College parties agreed with me about as well as my mother's sort of parties did – namely, not at all.

"I'm not that much of a party person," he went on, "but the students here are really nice. Have you talked to any of them?"

"Not really," I said, feeling a strong sense of déjà vu from my past conversation with Michel.

He laughed. "You're just like Katarine. She hasn't met anyone else outside of Le Huit either."

I sent a sideways glance down at Katarine. She gave one of her strange, serious smiles.

"Let me guess," he said. "It's because you're so wrapped up in classes and work that you're too busy to get to know anyone."

I shrugged and then laughed, too. "Well, yes," I said. "But I can't help it. Do you know how many schools I'm applying to this fall? Eight. And that on top of Université Rousseau classes and my Coeur internship…"

"…makes Shannon a very dull girl?"

I threw him a stern look. He smiled. "Just kidding," he said, rising from the table with his tray. "I have to get to economics, but you two have fun together. Birds of a feather and everything."

"Bye," I said, and Katarine echoed me. He waved as he left; I tried to see whether he reserved any special emotion in his goodbye to Katarine, but I couldn't tell.

I turned to Katarine, who was still working on her toast and cereal. "Did you have fun at the party last night?" I asked her.

She nodded without saying anything, continuing to nibble at her toast. I realized how little I had actually spoken to her.

"Honestly, I was glad to leave it," I offered, hoping to get her open up slightly. "I'm really not a party sort of person at all."

She took another bite of toast. "I don't like them very much either," she said.

"James said you spend a lot of time working," I added. I felt a bit stupid for mentioning it – after all, she had heard him say it less than five minutes ago – but I was hoping to lead her into something resembling a real conversation.

She nodded again. I thought that she wasn't going to actually reply, but then she said, "Learning is important to me."

"Me too!" I said, thrilled to have hit upon a mutual conversational topic. "You're a math and science type, aren't you?"

"Yes," she said.

I was relieved to see her give a real answer instead of a silent nod. "What do you think of our physics class so far?" I asked, wanting to keep the conversation going.

She took her time thinking over her answer. "I like it," she said, slowly. "I like Professor Guillemin. He's very good at what he does and he knows what he's talking about."

"Yes, I do, too," I said. "I think he's wonderful at making concepts understandable without dumbing them down, or talking down at us."

We carried on the conversation all throughout breakfast and all the way to the building where our class was held. Katarine wasn't the most prolific conversationalist, but I learned a little about her. I found that she was an awful like me in some respects: she was serious about her schoolwork, and hated letting other things get in the way of it. She still didn't have very much to say, but I warmed to her slightly more.

Katarine slipped away to the library when Guillemin concluded his lecture, and I went off to European history. I lingered over packing up my things at the end of that class, not having anything else to run off to. It was my off day at _Coeur_. Sometimes in my free time I would hang out with Michel in the lounge or the coffee shop, but that wasn't a particularly desirable option today.

Avoiding Michel was in fact a surprisingly easy task. Not that, of course, I considered it _avoiding _per se. I wasn't avoiding him. I was only holding off our conversation until I figured out the best way to present my news to him.

I walked back to the dorms by myself. I passed several people on the way – people together in groups standing near the fountain, sitting on benches, sprawled on the grass. Talking, laughing, living.

I hugged my books to my chest and thought about Greer and Anna in Stoneybrook. I hadn't talked to either of them in awhile. My thoughts strayed, almost guiltily, to Maria and Tiffany. I hadn't talked to them in awhile, either.

I hadn't spoken to a single family member since I had heard that rare family blow-up on the phone a few weeks ago. Since I had called and no picked up at home a few weeks earlier, I hadn't tried calling again.

My thoughts traveled with me up the elevator and into my room. I hung my bag up neatly and sat down on my bed, looking at my phone.

Like magic, it rang. I almost jumped.

I answered it. "Hello?"

But the voice was neither Maria, nor Tiffany. It wasn't even Anna or Greer. "Hello, is this Shannon?"

I recognized the voice in an instant despite never having heard it on the phone before. "Yes, it is. Hi, Thomas."

"Shannon," he said. I realized I was smiling. "How are you?"

"Good," I said, settling back against my pillows. "How about you? Are you working your way through _Solitude_?"

"Bit by bit, yes," he replied. "I can see how the writing is thoughtful, but it hasn't quite _grabbed _me yet."

"Oh, I know!" I said. "That's exactly how I felt. I don't think I was fully pulled in until about halfway through, and then I couldn't stop reading. You might be the same way."

"I'll take your word for it," he said. "Listen. About dinner…I was actually wondering if you happened to be free tomorrow night."

"Tomorrow night?" I repeated, idiotically.

"Oh, are you busy?" he said, sounding worried.

"Oh – oh, no I'm not!" I said, stumbling over my words like a thirteen-year-old girl. I had a sudden inane urge to laugh. I stifled it and composed myself. "I would love to go to dinner with you tomorrow."

"Great," he said. He named a restaurant, one that I had never heard of. But of course Paris was filled with restaurants I hadn't yet been to.

"That sounds lovely," I said. "What time?"

"I was thinking perhaps around six-thirty," he said. "Would you like me to meet you at your university?"

"Oh, no, that's fine," I said. "I'm actually working tomorrow, so I can take a taxi directly from there."

"Where do you work?" he said, sounding interested.

"_Coeur_ magazine," I answered. "It's actually an internship. I'm working under Catherine Baer, the reviews editor."

We kept talking for a few more minutes until he had to leave. I hung up, feeling absurdly pleased.

I stood and walked over to my closet, pulling the oak doors open. I wasn't familiar with the restaurant we were going to, and so I had no idea how to dress accordingly. I sifted through the colors and fabrics of my clothes. Nothing felt quite right.

In the face of this kind of emergency, there was really only one person to call. I picked up the phone and dialed.

Greer screamed.

"Calm down!" I said, laughing. "God, you're going to blow my ear out!"

"A _date_?" she shrieked, clearly delighted. "With a _Frenchman_? Shannon, I am going to _murder _you!"

"Please don't," I said. "Murder me after tomorrow night if you must."

"Is that when you're going out? Call me immediately afterward. Or even during."

"I'll try," I said. "But actually, I need your help before that. We're having dinner, but I've never been to the restaurant before. Tell me how to dress. It's our first date and I have to make a good impression." As those last words left my tongue, I felt a tiny shiver of anticipation. _First _date. Indicating that there were more to come.

I heard her groan. "Oh, no," she said. "Shannon, I would _love _to help you – you know I would, this is the sort of dilemma I adore – but I'm leaving in literally forty seconds. I have a date with the deliciously European physiology boy, and his car just pulled up."

"Oh, that's fine," I said immediately, not wanting to infringe. "I can figure it out."

"I know you can. Oh Shannon, I'm _so _sorry."

"I know. Don't worry," I said. "Have fun on your date!"

"That's a guarantee. Just remember – cleavage _or _legs. Never both. And tell me all about it later!"

I hung up and began sifting through the clothes hangers again, searching for just the right outfit. I pulled out several dresses and threw them aside. As my fingers closed on a familiar crimson empire-waisted dress, I suddenly remembered a girl who had worn that same dress before. A girl who I hadn't spoken to in awhile, who had helped me with a very similar predicament not long ago and who I could count on to help me with this one.

I reached for the phone a second time and dialed, smiling.

The phone rang three times before someone finally picked up. "Hello?"

Just the person I had hoped to reach. "Tiffany, hi!" I said. "It's me!"

There was a long, taut pause. Finally she said, "What do you want?"

Her tone took me aback. "Um…" I said, off-guard. "How have you been?"

"Great," she said, her voice tart. "Is that all you wanted? Bye."

"Tiffany, don't hang up!" I held the phone away from my ear and stared for it a moment, shocked. I tried speaking again, this time using a softer voice. "Tiff, why do you want to hang up on me?"

"Well, you didn't call to ask me that," she said. "You called to ask how I've been, right? Great. So bye."

"_Tiffany_!"

She sighed audibly over the phone. "What do you want, Shannon?"

"I…" I said, lost for words. My answer came out tentatively. "Well, I have something to go to and I was hoping you could give me some advice on what to wear. You know. I miss you. I thought it would be fun to talk to you for awhile."

She laughed. It was a sharp, biting sound. "Oh, you miss me?" she said.

"Yes," I said. "I do. Of course I miss you guys, Tiffany."

"Oh, I see," she said. "You miss us. Okay. Let me get this straight. So when you say you miss us, you miss Mom stumbling around the house blitzed out of her mind, and you miss Dad being worried that his firm is going to collapse, and you miss the country club calling to ask us to get Mom because she can't drive herself home, and you miss Dad coming home and screaming at her. Really? That's really touching, Shanny. That's sweet. I'm glad you miss us."

My mouth was frozen. I stood with the phone to my ear, with no idea what to say.

Tiffany filled the silence for me. "Actually, I guess you _did_ miss all of that," she said, her tone heavily sarcastic. "That's funny. I hope you're having fun in Paris, Shannon."

"Tiffany," I said, struggling to find my voice. "Tiffany…I'm so sorry…"

"That's nice, Shannon," she said. "Bye."

She hung up.

I was still standing in the middle of the room, holding onto the phone. The dial tone beeped loudly in my ear.

I managed to sit down on the bed, but I couldn't move past that. I stared at my open closet door, shell-shocked.

Slowly, I collected myself. I hung up the phone and gathered up the dresses I had piled onto my bed, hanging them neatly back up in the wardrobe one by one. I tidied my already-tidy room. And then I sat at my desk and opened up my laptop, and I worked on my Yale application until I couldn't think about anything else.

It was then that my door opened and Michel came in. "There you are!" he said. "You weren't in the dining hall for dinner."

I stopped typing and turned slowly in my chair. He sat down across from me on my bed, holding a muffin wrapped in a napkin. "You have to be hungry," he said. "I got this for you, but you should come up and eat."

He handed it to me. I took it silently.

"And by the way," he added. "Your big news? I'm waiting." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

My thoughts were a blur. I couldn't focus.

"Hey," he said, looking at me more closely. "Are you feeling all right?" He touched my arm.

I shook my head. "I'm fine," I said.

"Are you sure?" he said. "You had a headache earlier this morning."

"Don't worry," I said, and closed my eyes.

I opened them again. He was looking at me.

"Okay," I said. "I do have news. And it is big."

He waited.

I began.


	12. Chapter 12

"I found Thomas."

The words came more easily than I'd thought. A long, tangled speech had half-formed in my mind, ready to be delivered in my best New England debate champion tones. But before it was finalized, the words simply spilled from my lips, plain and without preamble.

Michel gave a violent start. "_What_?" he said, staring at me as he had never done before.

"I found Thomas," I repeated, oddly calm.

Michel seemed to be having difficulty processing the concept. "You…" he began, then trailed off and lapsed into a new line of questioning. "How?"

I smoothed down an imaginary wrinkle in my clothes. "He was at the concert Catherine assigned me to," I said. "Or _in_ the concert. He plays the saxophone."

Michel looked as though he was running rapidly through an entire repertoire of emotions. He composed himself and asked, "Did you…"

He hesitated. I waited.

"Did you…talk to him?"

It was my turn to hesitate. Something inside of me closed up; another part of me seized control of my tongue and said, as honestly and plainly as I could, "Yes."

He looked as though he was debating whether or not to ask the next question. "What was he like?"

My mind was screaming at me to tell him that that wasn't the end of it, that there was more to the story I wasn't revealing. I squashed that inner voice and turned his question over in my mind, searching for the right words. "He doesn't look like you," I said finally.

He gave a brief nod. He wasn't interested in his looks; he wanted me to continue.

"He was really…nice," I finished, knowing even as I spoke that that could hardly satisfy Michel's urge to know more, that that could hardly sum up the whole of Thomas's personality that night: how charming and intelligent and interesting and yes, _nice_, he had been.

I rushed to add more. "I liked him," I said. "And everyone else seemed to like him, too. I talked to him for awhile and he's very smart. He's a junior in college and he's studying economics, but what he really loves is music…he's been playing saxophone for years, and piano as well, I think. And he was so interesting to talk to, he's read all these books and – "

I came to an abrupt halt, worried I was saying too much. But Michel sat there, enthralled. He was drinking it in.

"I got his phone number," I said carefully, not yet revealing the exact circumstances under which I had managed to get that number. "Do you want it?"

I jumped up before he could answer, eager to avoid looking at him. My purse was hanging on a hook of the closet. I rummaged through it until I came upon a folded piece of paper, which I handed to Michel.

He glanced down at it, then refocused his eyes back up in my direction. "You didn't tell him about me," he said, in a questioning sort of voice.

"No!" I said immediately. "Of course not. That's…that's your decision."

"So he doesn't know – "

"He doesn't know anything."

Michel nodded. He looked at the paper again. "Thanks."

"Of course," I said, although I wasn't certain what he was thanking me for. I hesitated before I asked the next question, unsure whether I should be asking it. Tact and curiosity battled silently in my head; the latter won out. "Will you call him?"

He lifted his gaze up to me again and raised his eyebrows. "What do you think?" he said.

"I don't know," I said, honestly.

Michel folded the paper in his hand. "I'm going to go take a shower," he said, and stood. He looked directly at me. "Thanks."

This time, I knew what he was thanking me for. "Of course," I said, for a second time.

He lingered for a moment, his gaze fixed on me. Then he clasped his hand firmly on the doorknob, ready to go.

I bit my lip. I couldn't let him go. I had to tell him the entire story.

"One more thing," I said.

He turned. "What's that?"

"He asked me out to dinner tomorrow night."

Silence.

I decided to risk looking at him. He was staring at me.

"I'm not kidding," I added.

"I know you're not. I know you don't have a sense of humor."

I was briefly offended until I realized _he _was kidding. Perhaps that was a good sign.

He was still looking at me, with an expression I couldn't quite read. "Well," he said, "what did you say?"

The question threw me off-guard, although it shouldn't have, really. I forced out an answer. "I said yes."

"Oh."

An eternity passed. His hand was still on the doorknob.

I had to break the silence. I opened my mouth to say his name, but he spoke before I could.

"Okay," he said. "Thanks for telling me."

He was out of the door before I could say another word.

And I was left to turn the conversation over and over again in my head, mentally dissecting every fragment and chastising myself over all the ways I could have handled it better. I wondered briefly whether he would call Thomas before tomorrow evening, then shoved that thought aside. The better question was whether he would call Thomas at _all _– especially now that I had gone and thrown myself into the situation like an unwanted visitor.

I spent the rest of the night at my desk, tapping away at my laptop and polishing my college applications. I sat in an empty room next to a phone that did not ring, listing all of my awards and accolades as though they were a protective coat over what lay inside, my personal failures.

Catherine heaped praise upon me the next day at work. "Gabriel said he found you a very charming young woman when he met you at the concert," she reported as I entered the office.

"He did? That's very nice of him," I said as I set down my bag and settled in at the desk. "Thank you for sending me, Catherine. I had a nice time."

"Yes, well, I had to send you, did I not?" she said crisply. "It was an emergency. I'm pleased you were able to fill in for me. You're a very reliable girl."

"Thank you," I said, surprised and pleased by the rare compliment.

Apparently it was strange for Catherine as well, because she frowned before turning and sweeping into her office. "Send me my messages through e-mail," she called over her shoulder.

"Of course," I said to her leaving back. As though on cue, the phone rang. I picked it up. "_Coeur _magazine, Catherine Baer's office…"

It occurred to me, between calls, that I hadn't told Michel when I was having dinner with Thomas. I hadn't spoken to Michel all day, as a matter of fact – I wasn't sure if it was due to his skillful avoidance or regular old circumstances. He had not been in the dining hall for our usual lunch; I had had to eat with Iliana and Annabel.

Michel usually showed up to walk me back to the university after work, but he didn't know that I was leaving for the restaurant directly from the office. I bit my lip.

My hand inched toward the phone as though of its own accord, but before I could close my hand over the receiver, it rang. I jerked.

Of course, I told myself sternly as I took the call. This was the magazine's phone. And I certainly couldn't handle personal business during office hours.

That was the excuse I used to convince myself to assuage the twinges of guilt. Whenever one came on, I threw myself further into my work. Catherine would certainly never tell me so, but I was a model intern. Just as I was with nearly everything else.

When my break finally rolled around, however, my better conscience won out. I hadn't bothered bringing food, as I would be eating dinner in an hour's time. Instead I pushed back my chair and left the building, craving some fresh air as long as I was on the phone.

My wish for fresh air was answered, but my call to Michel was not. His now-familiar voicemail sounded in my ear: "This is Michel DuMoulin. Leave a message if it's important. Leave something entertaining if it's not."

I closed the phone with a small pang of irritation. The irony of repeating virtually the same situation twice within three days was not lost on me.

Having failed to get ahold of Michel, I reentered the building and returned to the office. Under my chair sat a plastic bag next to my usual black purse. I slipped it over my wrist and walked quickly to the bathroom, where I locked myself inside a stall.

Inside the plastic bag was the outfit I had carefully chosen for my date with Thomas. I had called Greer again that afternoon, and under her long-winded guidance, I had settled on a espresso-colored dress that fell to the knee, with thin straps and ivory trim.

"Do you think the color's a bit boring?" I had asked her, turning in the mirror to survey myself from all angles.

"It's _classic_," she had responded in a very authoritative voice. "And classy. How old is he, again?"

"Twenty-one, I think."

She groaned. "I just despise you sometimes. All right, the color is _classic_, not boring. If he's twenty-one, you don't want to look like a little girl."

I slipped the dress over my head now and zipped myself up neatly. Opening the door, I stepped out of the stall and gave myself a cursory once-over in the mirror. My hair spilled in waves onto my shoulders; I lifted it with my hands and turned once to survey the dress. It fit snugly against my skin.

Satisfied, I hurried out of the bathroom and back to my desk. A quick glance around confirmed that no one was there, so I opened my compact and touched up my makeup very quickly. I never wore very much: tonight, only mascara and a coat of rose-colored lip gloss.

My things lay sprawled across the desk. I gathered them up into my purse, which I slung over one shoulder, then knocked lightly at Catherine's personal office door. "Catherine?" I said. "I'm leaving now."

"All right," her voice traveled from behind the door. "I will see you tomorrow."

Anxiety began to creep through my nerves as I stepped into the elevator. It stayed with me all the way down to the ground floor and across the linoleum tiles of the lobby. Michel's reaction – or lack thereof – when I had told him about Thomas hadn't been especially encouraging. I wasn't eager to tell him that he had made the trip out to walk me home for nothing, that I was leaving for my dinner with Thomas.

And, I registered with an odd pang, it looked as though I wouldn't have to. Outside, my eyes automatically gravitated toward the spot where Michel typically waited for me, usually with that ridiculous harmonica of his. But as I swept the area with my eyes, neither Michel nor his harmonica were anywhere in sight.

Almost unconsciously, I straightened my shoulders. That was fine. It was much better this way.

I hailed a taxi and gave the driver the address of the restaurant where I was meeting Thomas. "How far is it from here?" I asked, concerned for the time.

"Perhaps ten minutes, _mademoiselle_. Don't worry, it is not long."

A quick glance at my watch revealed that I would show up at the restaurant a few minutes early. I didn't mind. Despite my mother's best training, I wasn't hung up on all the little societal rules and regulations about being fashionably late. I trusted that Thomas was sensible enough not to care, either.

I did care about my appearance, though, and in a silent admission to the shallow nature that lurked in the best of us, I suspected that Thomas would, too, even just a little. I slipped off my clunky old watch and tucked it into my bag, then pulled out my compact and cast an anxious glance over my reflection.

A slight twinge of nervousness ran up my spine, mixed with something else that took me a moment to identify. Excitement.

I hadn't been on a date since Greer had roped me into a double date with a friend of Kevin Rhodes, whom she'd been pursuing avidly at the time. _That _had been an affair. I remembered very distinctly how uncomfortable I had felt the entire time, from the practically offensively mindless action movie the boys had chosen to the tacky burger joint we had gone to afterward.

I _had _had a very brief, very short-lived relationship with Jake Rossum, but it had broken off about three months in. He had been a freshman at Connecticut College at the time and was swept up in college life, and I, as always, had had far too many things on my plate as well. It really had been for the best – any relationship set up by the involved parties' _mothers _was likely doomed from the start.

Thomas was neither a gawky high-schooler with tremendously bad taste in movies, nor the son of my mother's best friend. There was no outside baggage here. No expectations, no childishness. It was just me, in this beautiful, incredible city. Another new chapter of my new life.

The taxi dropped me off in front of the restaurant. I smoothed down the skirt of my dress and walked inside, anticipation bubbling up inside me. Immediately I spotted Thomas sitting at a corner table, and felt myself smile. He was early, too.

I lingered for just a moment before joining him. He was wearing a crisp white shirt and his hair was tousled just slightly as he studied the menu before him. I bit back another smile as I crossed the room.

His head lifted at the sound of my presence, and his mouth curved into a smile. "Good, you found it," he said.

"Oh, no. The cab driver found it. I just paid him to do the honor," I said, sitting down across from him. "I still don't completely trust myself around the city, even though I do love it."

"It's hard not to love it," he said. "Of course I grew up here, so I am biased. But I know I could not imagine living anywhere else."

"I'd love to grow up in a city like this," I said, a slightly wistful tinge to my voice. "Paris has been one of my dreams for the longest time. I was so excited when I got my _Le Huit _acceptance letter."

He began asking questions about _Le Huit _and I answered them, happy to talk about something that meant so much to me.

"Is it strange being so far from your family?" he asked.

I hesitated. I settled for an answer somewhere in between the nebulous area of honesty and diplomacy. "A bit," I said. "I suppose. It's mainly not being able to watch over my two younger sisters that bothers me. I'm so used to taking care of them."

"How old are they?"

"Twelve and fifteen," I said. "So they really are fairly self-sufficient already. It's just – "

I paused. He was watching me, waiting for me to finish.

I made myself smile, and picked up the menu. "Never mind," I said, with concentrated effort. "So, do you know what you're going to order?"

I found to my relief that I didn't need any coaching through the items on the menu. I sent an involuntary thank you to my mother, whose penchant for ostentatious dining had made me easily familiar with all sorts of foreign dishes.

The waiter took our orders, and we settled into a comfortable, pleasant conversation that meandered from subject to subject. My eagerness to get off the topic of my own family led me to ask Thomas about his.

"Me? Well, I am an only child," he said. I tried not to flinch. "My mother brought me up until I was five, which is when she married my stepfather, Adrien. He's a wonderful man. I've never met my real father."

I nodded and continued to sip my water, thinking that perhaps his family wasn't such a good conversational topic, either.

"Your mother must be an awfully strong woman," I said.

"She is." Something passed through Thomas's green eyes. "I never appreciated it when I was younger, of course, but I owe her very much."

I looked at him, feeling myself soften. For some inane reason a picture of Greer flashed involuntary through my head, in lecture mode as she often was. _If he loves his mother, Shannon, he's a keeper_.

By the time the food arrived, our conversation had turned to my internship at _Coeur_. "Catherine, the editor I work under, is just this wonderful, forceful woman," I said. "I'm learning so much just soaking up the atmosphere."

I took a bite and continued. "I know it's a bit much, since I have classes and college applications to worry about as well," I went on, "but I really just love it this way. I don't feel right unless I have a hundred things to do."

"I understand," said Thomas. "I am not as busy as you, I think, but I'm the same in some ways. That's why I took up music when I was younger. I don't like being still. My fingers itch for something to _do_."

"Yes!" I said, looking at him with appreciation. "That's exactly it."

We lapsed into a discussion about music – Thomas had been playing piano since he was eight, but he had fallen for the saxophone and jazz music in his teens. "I've never been much for jazz," I confessed to him. "I like listening to it, but I've never felt I've managed to _get _that much out of it."

"Well, I'll have to help you see the light," he said.

I smiled at him. "I hope you do."

We talked and talked until the check arrived. I was glad to see Thomas reach for his wallet and pay for his own half of the meal. Jake had always insisted on paying for me no matter what I said, and it had always bothered me to no end.

By the time we stepped outside into the cool night air, I was in no mood to leave. I glanced up at him, wondering what he would say.

To my surprise, he took my hand. I felt a warmth surge through me. "You attend Université Rousseau, right?" he asked.

I nodded without speaking.

"I know where that is," he said. "It isn't very far from here. May I walk you back to your building?"

I nodded again, and forced myself to form actual words this time. "Of course," I said.

We walked hand-in-hand through the Paris night, picking up our conversation from the restaurant. Thomas named the streets as we walked through them, pointing out certain things along the way and helping me grow acquainted with the city.

The Université Rousseau campus soon loomed before us. This time I guided him through, pointing out buildings in which I had classes and places that had become special to me in my time there.

Finally we came to a stop outside of my dorm building. I tilted my face up to look at him.

"Thank you for walking me," I said. "And for such a lovely time, of course."

He didn't respond, but bent down and kissed me lightly on both cheeks. I felt a little thrill run through me. "Thank you for letting me walk you home," he said. "I'll call you later on in the week."

I stood watching him walk away for a moment, fighting down the idiotic smile that threatened to take over my face. Finally I entered the building. I stepped into the elevator and leaned back against the wall, feeling ridiculously happy.

The elevator beeped. I stepped out onto the floor and immediately froze.

Michel was in the hall, his back to me. He was coming out of the bathroom. In a moment he would head toward his room and see me.

I made no attempt to move. His eyes fell on me.

"Hi," I managed.

His eyes flickered. "Hi."

I had no idea what to say. It was the first time I had seen him all day.

He gaze dropped down to take in my dress and rose back up to my face. "Did you have a good time?"

My mouth was frozen. I made myself speak. "Yes," I said.

He nodded. "That's good," he said. Without saying anything else, he let himself into his room.

My stomach twisted. I walked down to the hall to my own room and shut the door with a snap.


	13. Chapter 13

_Chapter 13_

I haven't fought with either of my parents in years. There are a lot of reasons for this: my parents trust me, for one, in a way that I know my friends envy. I've always been mature for my age, and I suspect that my parents have been thinking of me an adult for the last few years. And adults in my household mainly keep to themselves.

The last fight with either of my parents that I can remember having is with my mother, two years ago. I was fifteen years old and a sophomore at SDS. I wasn't only that – I was also French Club secretary, Astronomy Club treasurer, a Future Business Leader of America and one of the lead actresses in the upcoming spring play. I was all of that. But I was also fifteen.

My mother had just come home from the yoga class she had recently begun. I remember her skin was glowing, and her eyes were extraordinarily bright. She flung her things down on the kitchen counter and announced, "Darling, I've just met the most fascinating woman!"

I had been sitting at the kitchen table, working on an English paper and eating a snack before that night's play rehearsal. "That's nice, Mom," I had said without looking up. "Should I warn Dad?"

She laughed, pulling out the chair across from me and sinking down into it. "No, darling, of course not," she said. "I met her at my yoga class today. Her name is Julia Rossum. She's just lovely. And darling…"

Her voice lowered then, her tone taking on a confidential air. I looked up from my notebook. "What?"

"She has a son who goes to school in Stamford, around your age. His name is Jake and he's a senior in high school." Mom leaned in closer then, looking terribly pleased with herself. "What do you _think_, Shannon?"

I jumped back from the table, flushing pink. "_Mom_!" I said, indignant. Boys weren't exactly a new development at age fifteen, but having them foisted upon me by my own mother certainly was.

"What, darling?" she replied, entirely oblivious. "Ooh, listen. She's invited me over for cocktails this Friday evening. Would you like to come along? You could meet him…"

I slammed my English notebook shut, convinced that I was entirely too mature for this conversation. "_Mother_," I said.

"_What_, darling?"

I summoned up my most dignified tones. "Mom, I am _not _having this conversation with you.

"Why, darling, what's wrong?"

"I don't want to be – to be set_ up _by my own mother!"

"Darling, I'm only trying to help!" she said, and steamrolled right on. "Now listen, I haven't met the boy myself, but Julia says he's a perfect dear. And do you know what, darling? He speaks Italian, just like you! Isn't that romantic? I know you have your little Italian Club…"

"_French _Club," I corrected her, feeling a flash of annoyance. "_Mom_."

"Sorry, darling. They are rather similar, aren't they? Anyway, what do you think?"

"I think absolutely not," I said crisply, gathering up my things and pressing them to my chest. "And I have to go. I have minutes to record from my last _French _Club meeting."

My mother sniffed. "Well, you know, darling, I'm only trying to help," she said, pushing back her chair and rising from the table. "There's no need to be so haughty."

"Help?" I repeated, spinning around and turning an incredulous eye on her. "You must be kidding. Mom, you think you know me well enough to set me up with a boy I've never even _met_, but you can't even remember which language I've been studying for the last several _years_. What is the matter with you?"

The last part had slipped out unintentionally, and I almost wanted to take it back when I saw the stricken look that passed over Mom's face.

But then she straightened her shoulders, and rose to her full height. "Darling, you know how busy I am," she said, the exuberance gone from her voice. "I've got so many things on my mind, can you blame me for forgetting one detail? And really, darling, I would have thought you would be _glad_."

The little scrap of remorse had disappeared. "_Glad_?" I demanded. "Why would I be _glad_?"

She lifted her chin. "Well, darling, you used to complain all the time about being smothered, didn't you? I understand now. Teenage girls need their independence, and so do, I daresay, their middle-aged mothers – "

"This isn't about _independence_!" I threw back at her. "This is about the fact that my mother is such a flake that she doesn't even know about one of the biggest parts of my life – "

"Hi! I'm home! Is there anything good to eat?"

Maria came flying in through the side door, her hair still wet from swimming practice. She skidded to a stop in the middle of the kitchen, looking over the scene at hand with uneasy eyes: Mom and I standing across from each other at the table, me glaring, Mom looking affronted.

"Um…" she said, her eyes flicking back and forth. "Is there something wrong?"

Mom recovered before I did. "No, darling, of course not," she said, dropping her crossed arms and turning to the counter. She swung her yoga bag over one shoulder. "Now, I really must go upstairs and shower, I have an evening class soon…Maria, darling, you can order Chinese food. Money's in the drawer. Shannon, you can have the same thing…"

"No, thanks," I said shortly. "I have a play rehearsal tonight. Of course, I wouldn't expect you to know that."

Her expression tightened for just a moment before she walked over to the refrigerator and pulled the Chinese takeout menu off for Mara. Evidently, she was choosing to pretend she hadn't heard what I said.

That suited me just fine. I turned on my heel and headed for the staircase, leaving her behind.

Two nights later she had come home from the Rossums' cocktail party, her face aglow and her steps slightly stumbling. I had been seated at the kitchen table, this time eating a late dinner of ramen noodles and cranberry juice after that night's rehearsal and trying get some homework in before the weekend.

She slowed to a stop when she caught sight me, gripping the edge of the counter for support. "Shannon," she said, and I noted the absent "darling."

I looked up from my work and felt my stomach tighten. "Hi," I said, guardedly. After a moment, I added, "How was the party?"

"Reasonably fun," she said. "How was your…"

She paused, and I knew that she had no idea where I had just been. I filled in the blank for her.

"Play rehearsal," I said.

"Right."

"It was good."

"Good," she said. Then she straightened up, almost resolutely, and made her way to the stairs.

And that had been the end of it.

That had taken place a full two years ago, and I haven't fought with either of my parents since. I've learned my lesson – it wastes time and all it creates is a certain awkward presence in the room that lasts for a few days, then fades into forgotten memory. It doesn't accomplish anything. It doesn't change anything.

But now I gripped the phone receiver tighter, trying to coax words out of the voice on the other end, and wondered if it was an attitude worth breaking.

"And school's started by now, so I'm taking trigonometry, computer science, honors Spanish…"

Maria's words washed over me like empty matter, spoken in a monotone that I recognized. It was the monotone I had perfected myself years ago, whenever a smiling stranger at a party or a function inquired after my studies. "And French Club is going well, I was elected president this year," I would say. "Next week we're having a bake sale…"

I cut Maria off in the middle of a long recitation of the swim team's weekly agenda. "That's nice, and I'm glad the team's so strong this year," I said. "But I don't want to know how long you're practicing every day. I want to know about _you_."

Her only response to that was a certain, stiff kind of silence. I tried not to sigh.

"I'm asking because I really want to know, Maria," I said. "How are you? How are things – " I almost said _at home_, but thought better of it and caught myself just in time. " – with – with – how are things?" I finished awkwardly.

"Things are fine," she said. "I _told _you. The swim team lineup is really strong this year, Coach says we look like we're in better shape than ever…"

"That isn't what I mean and you know it." I worked on keeping my growing frustration out of my voice. "Tell me about you. How's Tiffany? How are – " I bit my lip, gave in and went for it, " – Mom and Dad?"

"They're all fine," she said, in the same monotone.

Nothing more.

That was it. That was all my sister of twelve years had to say to me after I'd been gone for – what was it? – weeks, now. "We're fine."

I decided to change tack. Maria wasn't really the one I wanted to be lecturing, after all. "Where's Mom?" I asked. I didn't even bother asking whether she was home. I knew what the answer would be.

"At the country club."

I frowned. "I thought she had her new culinary class on Mondays?"

"She does," Maria replied. "She decided to skip this one."

That wasn't like Mom. "Why?"

"She said she needed some rest and relaxation after what happened last night."

"What happened last night?"

I could practically feel Maria's shrug over the phone line. "I don't know," she said. "Mrs. Carson had a charity benefit, I think. For…something. I was asleep when Mom came home."

It looked as though that was the most I would be able to get out of her. "Okay. Thank you, Maria."

"Uh-huh. Bye." She hung up.

I didn't take the time to dwell over her curt goodbye. Instead, I rummaged through one of my bags until I came across my small black address book. Flipping it open to the W section, I ran my finger down the page until I reached the entry for the Westwood Country Club.

Mom had become a member shortly after meeting Mrs. Rossum, who had been frequenting it for years. I had only been there a couple of times. I hadn't taken to it at all. It made me think, inexplicably, of a girl I had once known named Jessi Ramsey. She would have felt worlds out of place at the Westwood Country Club, a place that seemed specially designed to include its members by excluding everybody else.

The phone rang twice before someone answered. "Hello, Westwood Country Club," a woman said. Her voice was like liquid honey.

"Hi, my name is Shannon Kilbourne. I was hoping to get ahold of my mother?" I gave her Mom's name.

"Is it an emergency?"

I hesitated for a moment before deciding that there were worse things I could do in the world than tie up the phone line of a snobby, elitist organization like the country club. "Yes," I said, and it wasn't entirely a lie.

A few moments passed before Mom came on the line. "Hello?" she said.

"Mom, it's me." I paused, then added, "Me, Shannon." Perhaps I was underestimating her – I hoped so – but I wasn't in the mood to take chances.

"Shannon?" she repeated, clearly confused. "Darling, what is it? How did you know I was here?"

"I called the house and Maria told me."

"I see," she said. "Well, darling, what is it? Is there a problem?"

Her words so far seemed reasonable, and she was speaking lucidly enough. But if I wasn't mistaken, there was a certain drawl to her voice, a slurring quality that I might not have noticed if I hadn't been her daughter for the past seventeen years. It only spurred the seed of anger already growing inside me.

"Is there a problem?" I echoed, forgetting one of the most important debate team rules: never be nakedly aggressive toward your opponent. "Mom, you must be joking. Tiffany tells me you and Dad have been fighting – not that she's telling me much, because she blew up at me over the phone and hung up, but it's more than what Maria tells me, which is nothing more than that you're all fine. I have to admit that I doubt that, considering that you called me last week and seemed to be screaming at Dad – and that you seem to be drunk now even though it's _two in the afternoon _in Connecticut."

I broke off, more than a little surprised with myself. Still, I didn't care. That had needed saying, and I had been putting it off since I had received that first phone call from home.

Mom seemed surprised as well. "I am _not _drunk," she retorted, full of indignation, right after I had finished my last word.

I didn't miss a beat. "Fine. Maybe. But you've certainly been drinking. And from what I've heard lately, it seems like you've been drinking a lot."

"That is simply untrue," she said. "Darling, I have no idea where you're getting all this from, but this certainly isn't my Shannon. What's gotten into you?"

"Nothing's gotten into me," I said, in as measured a tone as I could manage. "What's gotten into _you_, Mom? You and Dad never fight – "

This was true. My mother and father are rarely alone together long enough to fight. Their relationship is amicable: not, perhaps, the most romantic of situations, but efficient in its own right. My father faded from all of our lives, including my mother's, a long time ago. I suppose my mother felt that she had every right to do the same.

"Your father and I are certainly not fighting, darling," Mom said. "Goodness. Shannon, you really mustn't overreact like this. Calm down, darling."

"What about the time you called me last week, looking for Dad's briefcase?" I challenged her. "It sounded a lot like you were fighting then."

"It may have sounded like that," Mom said, tautly, "but it _certainly _wasn't. Now, darling. Why don't you go enjoy Paris – "

"I would enjoy Paris much more," I said, as evenly as I could, "if I knew everything was all right at home. Mom – "

"Everything _is _all right," she said, and now there was a definite edge to her voice. I knew I was working on her last vestiges of patience, but I pressed on.

"Mom – "

"_Shannon_," she returned, her tone sharp. "Darling, I am here to have a relaxing afternoon. Please, let me have my time to myself. Goodbye."

I opened my mouth to respond, but it was too late. The dial tone was already ringing in my ear.

That didn't stop me. I dialed the number again, and waited for the receptionist's honeyed tones.

The same woman answered, but this time her response wasn't nearly as helpful. "I'm sorry," she said once I had introduced myself, "but Mrs. Kilbourne has requested that no more calls be put through to her."

"It's _urgent_," I protested.

"I apologize, but I can't help you. Have a good day."

_Click_.

I sank down onto my bed and lowed my head into my hands, rubbing my temples.

That had failed. But, I promised myself, it wouldn't be my last attempt.

For now, I needed sustenance. It was eight o' clock, and the last thing I had eaten was an apple and a few crackers during work. I gathered up a few folders and books from my desk and tucked them into my bag, hoping the dining hall would be quiet enough for me to get some work in while I ate a quick meal.

Before I was ready to leave, though, the shrill ring of the phone sounded through the room. I nearly lunged toward it, hoping for my mother or even Maria to have undergone a change of heart.

The call display read _James_. I took a moment to swallow my disappointment before flipping it open. "Hello?"

"Hey! Have you had dinner yet?"

"Hi to you, too," I said, rifling to check if I had packed my college folder. "Not yet. I was actually just about to head out to the dining hall."

"Cancel that plan," he said. "I just had a really grueling philosophy exam, so I'm rewarding myself with something other than generic cafeteria fare. Want to go out to eat?"

I hesitated. "I don't know," I said. "I was planning on studying…"

"And you can study! Afterward. Come on, it was a really tough test. Cheer me up here."

I laughed. "All right," I relented. "But not for long. Where?"

He named the place, a bistro where I had been with Michel once or twice before. "Where are you now?" he asked.

"In my room. You?"

"At the library. Do you just want to meet at the restaurant, then? It's pretty close."

"Sure," I said. "I'll be there in ten minutes."

"Great. I invited Michel and Katarine, too, so look for them at the place if you get there before me. See you soon!"

He hung up before I could say another word. I was left staring open-mouthed at the phone, thrown.

It had been three days since my date with Thomas, and Michel and I hadn't exchanged a single word in the time between. I had done my best to try to confront him, but he was always mysteriously absent whenever I knocked on his door or called his number.

I quickened my pace on the way to the restaurant, hoping to catch a few minutes with him without Katarine or James. He could not, I reasoned with myself, avoid me _forever_.

Luck was on my side. The first thing I saw when I stepped into the bistro was Michel, sitting alone at a table. He was thumbing idly through a paperback book and stirring what looked like a cup of coffee.

I could feel my stomach tighten, but I forced myself to ignore it and pushed forward, sliding into the seat opposite him before my feet could back away. "Hi," I said. "Good book?"

He looked up. His face was unreadable. "Shannon," he said.

"Me," I agreed, and before he could say anything else, I pushed on: "Michel, look, I know you're angry with me. And believe me, I know, you have _every _right to be. But…you know, you're my friend...and I don't want you to hate me."

He tapped his fingers against his coffee cup and flicked his eyes up to the ceiling for a moment before shrugging. "I don't hate you."

"Good!" I said, briefly thrown before pressing on once again. "Because…I'm sorry. You _are _my friend. And – "

He lifted his eyes. "Katarine," he said suddenly, and I snapped my head back, surprised. I opened my mouth to form a question that was answered when I turned and saw a tall, pale blonde figure entering the restaurant.

"Oh, right," I said, forcing a smile. "Katarine. Hi."

She didn't say anything, but she nodded as she pulled out the seat next to Michel and sat, smoothing the skirt of her green dress over her legs. Not two seconds later, the door opened again and James's familiar voice rang out: "Oh, good, you're all here!"

I stared at Michel, trying to read his expression as James sat down next to me, rubbing his hands together. "I haven't eaten since eleven. I'm starving," James declared, picking up a menu. "So, what are we talking about?"

Michel sipped neutrally at his coffee. I managed another smile. "Just….things," I said. "So. How was your exam?"

The entire length of dinner flew by without us discussing anything heavier than James's unfortunate tendency to choke during tests, or his professor's apparent propensity to torture students. An hour and a half later he set his cup on the table, leaned back, and announced, "All right, that was entirely too much coffee. I'm wired. And, unfortunately, I have to leave. Late night study session in the library with a bunch of fellow econ nerds."

"Yes, I need to leave, too," Katarine spoke up, setting down her napkin. "I have a chemistry test tomorrow morning."

"Are you going to be studying in the library?" James said. "I'll walk you."

Katarine nodded, and my heart jumped. I tried not to look too glad as they rose from the table, saying their goodbyes, and waved as they disappeared out the door. When I turned back to the table, Michel was already standing up.

I jumped up, too, and reached for my shoulder bag. "Do you want to go get ice cream or anything?" I asked. "It's not that late."

He was fishing in his wallet for his portion of the check, and didn't even glance up. "I don't think so, Shannon," he said.

I bit my lip. "Did you not bring enough cash?" I offered, knowing even as I spoke the words that it was quite a reach. "That's okay. It's my treat."

He closed his wallet and slipped it into his back pocket. "No, that's fine. I'll see you."

It was a small bistro, and I matched his pace step for step as he headed for the door. I caught hold of his wrist just as he stepped outside into the cool air of the early evening, closing my fingers down on his sleeve and tugging at him to turn around. "Please. _Don't_," I said.

He did turn, finally, and faced me square on for the first time that evening. He spread his hands. "What?"

Now that I had his attention, I was lost for words. I fell back, discomfited by the openness of his gaze. "You…you said you didn't hate me," I managed, hating that that was all I could think to say.

He shrugged. "I don't."

"Then..."

Michel saved me from floundering for further words. "I don't hate you, Shannon," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "For going out with Thomas? You should be able to date whoever you want." He paused. "You are going out with him again, aren't you?"

My voice seemed to be failing me. I willed it to return. "I think so," I said, barely above a whisper. "Yes."

"I figured." He studied me for a few moments. "Don't feel bad," he said, finally. "You know what? He's lucky."

I stared after him as he turned and walked away, hands in his pockets as he became a smaller and smaller figure in my line of vision. And for some reason I couldn't name, I felt even worse.

* * *

A/N: I know, I know, it's been an eternity! I'm so sorry. I've been so caught up with classes, but I promise to try to return to updating regularly (although I can't promise it'll be every few days, like in the summer). Thank you for reading, and please, please review if you can! It really does encourage me. :)


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

_Chapter 14_

"You're _what_?"

Even with thousands of miles of ocean in between it and me, Greer's voice was like a firestorm. I shrank back from the phone receiver, wincing. "I said, Thomas asked me out again – "

"But you're thinking about not going. Because of some boy from _Canada_," Greer said, pronouncing the word "Canada" as though it were some particularly insidious type of stomach parasite. "Shannon, you nauseate me. No! Not even that! Your thought process actually _disturbs _me on the most visceral level possible. I know you're responsible for the brains in our relationship – "

"Greer, you and I both have 4.0 GPAs."

"Because I'll need it to get into Columbia. Do you think I'd bother otherwise? Anyway, now, that is not the point. You may be a bastion of academic genius, but clearly, you need me to supervise all of your relationships."

That got a laugh out of me. "You mean like when you tried to set me up with that Boston transfer student who turned out to be gay?"

"_That_ is entirely irrelevant," Greer said with a sniff. "And you know, he was much more interesting than that Rossum creature your _mother _set you up with, anyway."

I sighed, leaning back into my pillow. "Let's forget about that."

"Yes, let's," she agreed promptly. "Let's discuss how you've evidently lost your _mind_ for choosing some hopelessly dull boy from North America over a _Frenchman_. Who, by every indication, has the potential of falling deeply in love with you!"

"Michel isn't dull!" I protested. "He's my friend, and he's wonderful, actually. And I feel so bad going out with Thomas if he doesn't approve."

"Michel_?_ That's his name?"

"He's part French. His father grew up here, actually."

Greer hummed over that. "Well. That makes him marginallymore interesting, I suppose. But he still has absolutely no business making you feel guilty over dating someone a thousand times more exotic! If Michel is in love with you, well, he clearly has good taste, but – "

I felt the color rise in my cheeks immediately, and shrank even further back against my pillow. "Greer! He isn't in _love _with me!"

"Please," she said, in her most authoritative tones. "A male friend who happens to flip out when some delicious Frenchman is all over you? How do you explain it?"

That gave me room for pause, and I didn't answer for a moment, biting my lip instead. I had promised Michel that I wouldn't tell anyone about his search for his half-brother, and – despite the fact that she and he would never meet, and, in fact, were separated by several countries – that included Greer, too.

I take secrets seriously.

"It's sort of complicated," I said finally, blowing the air out my cheeks. "I can't really tell you."

Naturally, that was exactly the wrong thing to say to Greer Carson. "What? What do you mean, you can't tell me?" she demanded.

"You're awfully high-maintenance sometimes, Greer, did you know that?"

"Of course I know that, and it isn't just sometimes. Now tell me."

I cast around for a different explanation and couldn't find one. "Never mind. I don't know," I said. "There are just some issues that…well, that make it complicated to date….someone like Thomas."

Greer huffed. "I don't see how," she said. "Listen, Shannon, you are in _Paris_, and you promised me before you left that you would have enough European adventures for the two of us. Now, I know that only adds up to about as much fun for one person and a half, but – "

"Hey!" I interjected, but she steamrolled on.

" – but you are my best friend, and I _forbid _you from _not _going out and having an absolutely fabulous time with your equally fabulous European."

I had to pause for a moment to deconstruct the clumsy double negative she had just lain out. "Which means…I should go out with Thomas."

"_Yes_," she said, emphatically.

I drummed my fingers against my knee. "I'll think about it."

And I did think about it. For awhile.

I thought about it as I took my morning shower, and I thought about it as I brushed my teeth. I thought about it as I stood in front of my closet, choosing my clothes for the day (a fitted navy jacket over a long gray shirt, and a red scarf to pull back my hair). I thought about it as I stood in line at the campus store, waiting to buy my croissant and yoghurt.

It was a Saturday, meaning that I had no classes for the day. I dipped a plastic spoon into my strawberry yoghurt as I started heading back toward the dorm, intending to get right back to work on my college applications – after all, like I always reminded myself, deadlines didn't disappear just because I had switched time zones.

Yale was on my mind as I swiped my student ID at the dorm building entrance and handed it to the security person at the front desk. I stepped into the elevator, feeling a bit surer of myself. It was a relief, really, to return to thinking about the comfortable land of college essays and teacher recommendations. It was land I knew; more importantly, it was a land I knew I could handle.

The hall was uncharacteristically quiet when I got off at the fourth floor, for which I was thankful. I pulled out my red college folder as soon as I got back to my dorm room, opening it up to a printout of Amherst's supplemental essay prompts.

_In addition to the essay you are asked to write as part of the Common Application, Amherst requires a second essay (250-500 words). We do not offer interviews as part of the application process at Amherst. However, your essays provide you with an opportunity to speak to us. Please keep this in mind when responding to one of the following quotations._

A list of quotations followed, intended to provoke thought and, with any luck, an admission committee-wowing supplemental essay. I stared down at the one I had chosen.

"_The art of being wise is the art of knowing what to overlook."_

_- The Principles of Psychology _(1980), William James

I tapped the end of my pen against the paper, and an image of my family flashed unbidden across my mind. I pictured my mother laughing at the center of the room at some dinner party or another, head tipped back and an empty champagne flute between her fingers.

William James, I thought, was a smart man.

My hand hovered over the page for a few moments, ready to write, before I slammed the pen down and pushed my chair back from the desk. I ran a hand through my hair, closing my eyes.

I glanced at the clock. Almost 9am. That meant it was nearly three o' clock in the morning for Stoneybrook, certainly not a good time to call.

Not that _any _time seemed like a good time to call home these days.

My Amherst application still lay open on the desk, staring innocently up at me. I had a sudden fleeting urge to crumple it up and sweep it into the trash can.

Instead I stood abruptly from the desk and swept my jacket around my shoulders, reaching for my keys and moving toward the door in one fluid motion. The elevator stood at the end of the hall, but I bypassed it in favor of the stairs. I wasn't in the mood to wait. I felt like moving.

I took the stairs quickly, feeling myself relax as I burst through the double doors and hit fresh air.

It was still nine o' clock in the morning, and on a weekend, that meant approximately seventy-five percent of the college student population was still asleep. I didn't mind. On the contrary, I took pleasure in the quiet of the morning, appreciating the time to myself as I walked slowly through campus.

Paris, Michel had commented to me once, was at its best in the evening. I thought I knew what he meant: it wasn't nicknamed _La Ville-lumière_ for nothing, after all, and the city _was _beautiful all lit up against the backdrop of nighttime.

But it was just as beautiful in the drizzly gray morning, when all the buildings looked so very old, so very romantic, and terribly sad. I pulled my jacket tighter around myself, and tried my best to think of nothing at all.

I walked, drifting in and out through the campus and the surrounding city with no particular destination in mind. I did stop at a small sidewalk café for a cup of hot cocoa, which I drank at a table outside while I watched the passersby.

It felt strange not to be doing anything – classes, college, _Coeur_ – or worrying about anything – Mom and Dad, Michel and Thomas, Maria and Tiffany. My fingers almost twitched for something to do, but I closed them around my cocoa mug and held it tight.

I didn't even notice when a shadow passed over the table, and a familiar voice said, "Well, this is a coincidence!"

I glanced up, and my mouth turned upward in an automatic smile. "James!" I said. "Hi. What are you doing here?" I paused, and after a quick glance at my watch confirmed that it was only nine-thirty, added, "And what are you doing _up_?"

He groaned and flopped down in a chair across from me. "Don't ask me that," he said. "Rodrigo and I were up late watching a movie, and then his insane phone alarm woke us up this morning. And then he kicked me out to get us breakfast." He held up a white paper bag from the same café, then propped his elbows up on the table. "So tell me. What are _you _doing out and about so early?"

I smiled. "Nine-thirty isn't early to me," I said. "I'm a morning person. I understand that makes me a rare specimen amongst college students."

"Very true," James conceded. "What are you doing sitting here all by yourself, though? Mulling over your DuMoulin problems?"

I flinched, and almost upset my cocoa mug. I composed myself in seconds, but my voice was still a touch shriller than I would have liked when I said, "Excuse me?"

James raised his eyebrows. "Michel? Look, you were basically inseparable for weeks, and now I barely see the two of you in the same room. Something happened."

"I think you're mistaken," I said, firmly. "Nothing happened. We're just both really busy with classes right now…and, you know, I have _Coeur_, and college applications to worry about."

"As do the rest of us," James agreed. "And Michel did just get that internship at a law firm – "

At that, my eyebrows shot up. Michel had a law internship? He hadn't told me that.

Across the table, James was looking slightly smug. Suspecting he had predicted my reaction exactly, I threw him a dark look and returned to my mug. "It's not a big deal," I said, not looking up as I stirred my cocoa. "I'm sure we'll get back to hanging out soon once we both figure out how to deal with our schedules."

"Hmm," said James, sounding very unconvinced.

I fixed him with a stern look. "Anyway," I said, decisively changing the subject, "how's _Katarine_?" I wasn't usually one to tease friends about their crushes, but I figured James had earned it.

Instead of looking guilty or embarrassed, though, his expression only reflected surprise. "Katarine?" he repeated. "What about her?"

I tilted my head at him. "_James_. Look, I know that you like her. It's sweet, really, it is."

He raised his palms, shaking his head. "No," he said. "I mean, she's great and everything – if, you know, a little on the silent side – but no. Where did you get that idea?"

"From that time in the dining hall!" I said. "It was a few weeks ago. Do you remember? We were all eating lunch, and you looked like your heart was going to break when Katarine and Rodrigo left to go to…." I trailed off, something suddenly clicking in my brain.

It looked like James realized it was clicking, too, because a panicked look came into his eyes. "No," he said quickly.

"Oh my God," I said.

"_No_!" he said again.

I found myself overcome by words, and failing to put them together in a coherent sentence. "No, James, I'm not – I mean, it isn't – I just had no idea!" I paused, and then, just to make sure, offered, "Rodrigo?"

He was leaning back in his chair by now, looking thoroughly resigned. Peeking up at me, he said, "Rodrigo."

"_James_! That's great! I mean – I'm sorry, I don't want to sound condescending, or anything….it's just….." Unable again to form coherent sentences, I laid a hand on top of his, and looked him in the eye. "I think that's wonderful," I said sincerely. "So…are you two…?"

But James was already shaking his head. "We're not. Well, _he's_ not," he said, then paused. "Well, I don't know! That's….part of the problem."

I fought the urge to laugh at the way he stumbled over his words. "Oh, James," I said. I hesitated. "Have you…tried asking him?"

He shook his head again. "I can't," he said, sounding slightly wistful. "I couldn't."

I didn't want to be rude, but I couldn't help myself from asking. "Why not?"

James considered the question. "You don't understand what it's like," he said, after a few moments. "If I tell him – we're friends, and I don't want to alienate him. I don't want things to be awkward." He glanced down at the table, then back up at me. "I don't like making a mess that I can't fix."

I almost laughed. "James," I said, and closed my hand over his. "I can't imagine what it's like dealing with your issues, and I'm so sorry. But believe me. I understand _that_."

It was ten-thirty when I got back to the dorm, fairly late in the morning but still early enough for half the floor to still be sleeping. My phone was sitting on my bed, and I picked it up – I had left it in my room during my walk, and it flashed up at me now: I had two voicemail messages.

The first was from Greer; she must have left it while I had been in the shower. "I almost forgot to tell you," she announced, in her most theatrical tones. "I had a date with European physiology boy tonight, and it went _fabulously_. I'll tell you all about it as soon as _you've _gone on your second date with Thomas and tell me all about how divine it was. Don't let me down, Shannon."

I deleted the message, smiling, and moved onto the next. It was Thomas, giving me the address of the restaurant we were supposed to meet at tonight. "I'm looking forward to seeing you," he said.

I copied the address down neatly on a piece of notebook paper, then stared down at it, biting my lip. I thought about making messes I couldn't fix.

I thought I knew what to do.

I tore the sheet with the address out from my notebook and folded it, laying it in a spot on the desk where I wouldn't misplace it. My college folder still lay open and untouched, but I couldn't think about that right now.

Before I left the room, I gave myself a quick glance-over in the mirror for some positive image reinforcement. I looked fine.

The hallway was empty, although I could hear people moving around in their rooms. Good. People were awake.

I stopped in front of Michel's door and made myself take a deep breath. I took another moment to further collect myself, then knocked.

A few seconds passed before he opened the door, clad in sweatpants and a t-shirt, his hair still mussed from sleep. "Shannon," he said. He didn't look overly surprised to see me, but then, I knew that it took a lot to shake him.

I nodded. "Can I come in?"

He swung the door open further and gestured me in, a gentleman as ever. "Make yourself comfortable," he said.

I stepped inside, trying to shake the feeling of self-consciousness that suddenly plagued me. I glanced around for a place to sit, and ultimately opted for his desk chair.

Michel sat on the edge of his bed, facing me. He waited, expectant.

I cleared my throat, ready to summon up my best New England debate champion tone. It disappeared when I met his eyes, though, and I was left with just my regular voice. Just Shannon.

"I'm seeing Thomas again tonight," I said.

He didn't say anything; he waited for me to continue.

I hesitated. "And I want you to come with me."

* * *

A/N: Short disclaimer – the Amherst essay prompt and quotation actually comes directly from their online application. What can I say? Like Shannon, I take my academia seriously.

Thank you so much to those who reviewed last chapter! I forgot how much fun I had writing this, and it means a lot that you're enjoying it, too. Please leave a review if you can.


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